Winter Revels
by Brighid45
Summary: Twelfth story in the Treatment series. House's clinic is up & running; his new team's getting to know each other. What will the holidays & wintertime bring in their wake? NOTE: this series is AU to the canon storyline after the S5 finale 'Both Sides Now'. OC romance, humor, drama, & angst. Now revised and updated.
1. Chapter 1

_(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)_

_December 3rd_

"You know, you remind me of him."

Jason glanced at Mandy. She was curled up on the couch under the throw, a box of tissues next to her. Nearly recovered from a nasty cold, she stayed with the Goldmans while her mother worked at the clinic. She had brought some books and DVDs with her to keep herself entertained. At the moment they watched a British show. Jason had never seen anything quite like it, but he found he enjoyed both the way the main character approached puzzle-solving, and the fast pace of the story itself.

"Him who?" he said, and pretended he didn't understand what she meant.

"Sherlock." She gestured at the screen with a crumpled tissue.

"You mean I look like him?"

"Well, a little," she said, and sniffled. "But more in the way you both think."

"Okaaaay," Jason said. He hoped she would explain.

"Sherlock takes everything into consideration when he evaluates a situation. He finds all the facts and puts them together to draw a conclusion, but he does it in a way most people don't understand. You do that too."

"But he's smart," Jason said. "I'm not smart."

"Yes you are," Mandy said. "You're the smartest person I know besides Doctor House. And Doctor Sarah and her husband," she said.

"Roz is smart too," Jason said. "I'm not."

Mandy rolled her eyes and wiped her nose. "Just because you have trouble with spelling doesn't mean you're stupid," she said. "You're so much better at math and physics than I am, and you're learning chemistry faster than anyone else in our class."

"You read better," he pointed out.

"My mom read to me when I was little," she said, and hesitated. "Your—your mom probably didn't."

Mandy was always careful not to probe when it came to his past, so he knew this wasn't an attempt to find out anything. "No," he said, and left it at that. He wasn't about to tell her his mom had usually been gone with some man she'd picked up in a bar, or passed out on the couch, when he went to bed. No one had ever read to him; they'd never had books or magazines in his house, his dad would have laughed his ass off at the idea. "Readin's for wimps," he often said. Jason remembered all the times he'd read at school. He'd get through part of a chapter and have to abandon the book for another stolen chance the next day when time ran out. Now he had a stack of excellent books by his bed, and Sarah and Gene had given him free reign to borrow anything he liked from their library. He loved to sit in the office, curled up in Doctor House's old chair, and read while Sarah worked or talked to Laynie. He still had problems with words though, and sometimes it took him forever to figure out a sentence.

"You're not stupid," Mandy insisted. She sat up a little. "You're the one sent a video camera up in a weather balloon. The vid was the best thing I've ever seen."

"I had a lot of help," Jason protested. He remembered the sense of pride when they'd discovered the camera had not only survived the fall back to earth, but recorded all of the journey except the last two minutes. Their science teacher had posted the vid to YouTube. It had received close to half a million hits now.

"So what? You did most of the work yourself after you got the information you needed." Mandy looked indignant. "Why do you put yourself down?" she said, just as Sarah came into the room. Jason hunched deeper in his chair and didn't answer.

"Hey you two, what's up?" Sarah asked.

"Jason thinks he's stupid," Mandy said. Jason glared at her but said nothing. When Sarah looked his way he braced for a bunch of questions.

"I see," she said, and poked up the fire to add another log before she came over and sat on the ottoman next to Jason's chair.

"I told him he isn't." Mandy sounded annoyed. "He keeps arguing with me."

"I didn't say I was stupid," Jason snapped. "Like I said, I'm—I'm just not . . . not smart."

"When Laynie and I were in school together she would always make me feel like a complete idiot when it came to math. I struggled with basic algebra and she ran rings around me." Sarah smiled a little. "I still have trouble with numbers."

Jason felt an odd sense of dismay. "You can't do math?"

"Oh, I can balance my checkbook and add up columns, but that's about it." Sarah clasped her knees. "It's all right. It took me a while to understand my strengths lie elsewhere. I know enough to get me by." She looked at Jason then, and her gaze held humor and understanding. "You'll discover the same thing, undoubtedly. So what are you two watching?"

It was later after Mandy's mom had picked her up and supper was about to come out of the oven that Jason said, "What you said earlier . . . so I'll never be good at writing."

Sarah put the panful of roasted chicken on the counter and set the pot holders aside. "I think you can be very good at writing, at reading and spelling and just about anything you set your mind to. But you'll be best at what you love." She wiped her hands on her apron and faced him. "What do you love, Jason?" she asked quietly. "That's the important question."

He thought about it while he ate and helped Sarah with the dishes and played Grand Theft Auto with Gene; on his walk to Gibbs's place, and the ritual of getting ready for bed; and finally in the warm darkness of his room, snuggled in his usual nest of pillows, sheets and comforter. When the answer came it surprised him.

_I love science,_ he thought. _Everything they teach me, everything I read or see online, even the things that are hard or boring sometimes. I want to know it all, the way Doctor House does. _That last thought surprised him. He'd never considered becoming a doctor, it was such an impossible goal with the money needed for all the schooling; besides, he wasn't even sure he'd ever want to be around sick people. But to help someone discover what was wrong with them . . . it intrigued him. How did Doctor House do it? What was the criteria, the method to find the cause of sickness?

_Maybe I could ask him. _Jason winced at the probable outcome of that venture. Doctor House would very likely laugh him to Albany and back and never tell him anything. But maybe, just maybe, if Sarah or Gene was there to prevent a one-on-one confrontation . . . Jason stared into the soft darkness. He'd find a way.

As luck would have it an opportunity presented itself two days later, though not quite in the manner he'd expected.

_December 5th_

"I need to run down to the clinic to drop off a few things. Want to come with me?" Sarah said from the kitchen doorway. Jason looked up from his homework. He felt a glow of excitement start deep within. Without a word he got to his feet and went to get his coat.

"You can look around a bit, just use your common sense," Sarah said on the way over, and Jason nodded. He knew there were two patients at the clinic, he'd heard Doctor House mention them over the weekend. He'd joked with Sarah about how he needed to buy a stretch limo with an emergency team on board, to pick people up from the airport in Syracuse.

When they reached the clinic Sarah took two bags from Minnie Lou's flatbed, where she'd tied them under the tarp. "I can carry them," Jason said, and went up the walk with both bags cradled in his arms, glad to have something to do. It would make the chances of Doctor House picking on him a little less certain.

He took the bags into the kitchen as directed, then went off to look around. It was a nice place, not at all like the doctor's office where he'd gotten his physical before he'd gone to Juvy. Everything was clean, comfortable and done in nice colors. It felt welcoming and homey.

The conference room was occupied; it looked like a meeting of some kind. The door was open, but Jason hesitated. He understood about patient confidentiality, and also knew for a fact most grownups didn't like having kids around while they were conducted serious business. Still, he was drawn to the sight of several people in deep discussion. Slowly he moved to the doorway, and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. He knew two of the people there of course, Doctor House and Doctor Singh; the other two, a younger man and an older woman, were unfamiliar. They were probably doctors as well, though—part of Doctor House's team, just as Doctor Singh was. Sarah had explained how it worked.

"Doctor House takes on the patients who haven't been able to get a definitive diagnosis, the ones who have been to other doctors and still haven't gotten a cause for their symptoms," she'd said. "He has a team who help him discover and interpret symptoms and get answers. He's one of the first doctors to focus solely on diagnosis, and he's known world-wide for his work."

_Chronic_, Jason thought once more, and focused on the discussion.

"—had two anxiety attacks since she got here," Doctor Singh said. "She's also having more trouble walking."

Doctor House sat at the end of the table, his chair pushed back so he could prop his crossed feet on the tabletop. "Is she still seeing people who aren't there?"

"Hallucinations have subsided," Doctor Singh said. "But she's shown rapid mood changes in the last twenty-four hours along with the attacks."

"Her rash has faded," the young guy said. He had a strange accent—Australian maybe, Jason couldn't quite tell. "Definitely photosensitive."

"Tests indicate she's excreting a higher amount of amino acids than normal," the woman doctor said. She sounded determined, as if she was sure no one listened to her. "A biopsy would tell us—"

"Biopsy what? Her ear?" Doctor House glanced at the doorway. Jason froze. "Make up your mind," House said harshly. "In or out."

Doctor Singh followed House's line of sight. "Hey Jason," he said with a smile. "Come on in."

Jason moved into the room. He felt out of place, but he took a seat at the other end of the table and folded his hands in his lap.

"I don't think you know my colleagues," Doctor Singh said. "Jason, this is Doctor Chase and Doctor Chandler. Robert, Joy, this is Jason Bramble."

"Nice to meet you, Jason," Doctor Chase said, and offered an easy smile that reached his eyes. Doctor Chandler gave him a suspicious look.

"You understand you can't talk about what you hear in here, right? To anyone?" she said. Jason nodded. "Okay. Nice to meet you," she added as an afterthought, but she relaxed a little and gave him a slight smile that smoothed out some of the lines around her eyes and made her not quite so formidable.

"Now that we've managed the social niceties," Doctor House said with considerable sarcasm, "we were drooling over removing tissue from the patient."

Jason listened to them argue and push facts at each other. House didn't say that much; he steered the discussion mostly. Doctor Singh said little as well, but when he did speak it was to either offer information or an opinion that was concise and logical. Jason admired his confidence; he didn't falter, even in the face of Doctor House's caustic wit. He even tossed some of Doctor House's own zingers right back at him without hesitation. House respected him for it, that was plain. He _listened_ to Doctor Singh, something he didn't seem to do as much with the other two. After a few minutes it became clear why. Chase was confident too, but when he spoke it felt like he sought approval. Chandler's attitude was the opposite. She was prickly and defensive even before someone attacked her ideas. Jason was reminded of a porcupine. She was smart, so was Doctor Chase, but how they presented their ideas got in the way. _I won't make that mistake,_ Jason thought, and looked up to find House's piercing stare fixed on him. "Go. Do," House said, and waved a hand at his team, who got to their feet and straggled out of the room. "Is there some reason why you're here?"

"Sarah—Doctor Goldman said I could come in and look around a little," Jason said. He worked hard to keep the defensiveness out of his tone, make it a statement of fact. After a moment Doctor House nodded.

"'kay," he said. He sounded pleased. He reached behind him and switched on a turntable—Jason had seen one before, in Sarah's office—and dropped the needle on the record ready to be played. Music filled the room, with a rhythm guitar and an old, old voice sang "I cain't judge nobody . . ." When Jason left House tossed a ball into the air and caught it over and over as he stared up at the ceiling. One foot kept a lazy beat along with the song.

He knew better than to go into the area with the 'PATIENTS' sign on the door, so it was something of a surprise to find a young girl in what seemed to be a small sunroom next to the kitchen. She was in a wheelchair and there was a piano keyboard in front of her. She appeared to play, but no sound came out, a puzzle until Jason saw the white cord of the earbud draped over her bathrobe. He hesitated, but she turned her head and caught a glimpse of him. She took the earbuds out and Jason saw one hand had only four fingers. The shock of the realization went clear through him. _How does she play with a finger missing?_ he wondered.

"Hi," the girl said. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes held a tentative friendliness. One was slightly crossed; her left eye looked inward a bit.

"Hey," Jason said. "I didn't mean to bother you."

"You're not bothering me." The words sounded strange. Jason watched her mouth and saw she couldn't move it very well. "What's your name?"

"Jason," he said. "What's yours?"

"Emily." Her lips didn't smile but her eyes did, and her voice was sweet, musical—like Sarah's, warm and kind. "Doctor House took my case. He's trying to figure out what's wrong with me."

"Are you here by yourself?" Jason perched on a chair a few feet away. He didn't want to stare at her, but it was clear Emily couldn't move the muscles of her face, and she wasn't able to turn her head either.

"No, my mom's here with me. She's sleeping on a cot they brought in for her."

Jason frowned a little. That seemed wrong somehow. "How's everything going?"

"Mom says they haven't found any answers yet, but they'll do some more tests." The smile in Emily's eyes faded. "I thought there couldn't be any more tests to do on me."

"You've had a lot done?"

"Yeah." Now she looked scared, though her expression hadn't changed. Jason looked down at his hands. The thought of her fear troubled him. He already knew what Doctor House and his team worked to find an answer. _What would Sarah or Gene do to help her? _The answer came so quickly he spoke before he thought.

"I could keep you company," he said, and cringed.

"What do you mean?" There was puzzlement in Emily's voice.

"After school—I could do my homework here while you practice or whatever," he said. "I'd have to ask permission, but I think it would be okay."

"Oh," Emily said. Again he had the impression of emotion, though her face didn't change. She liked what he'd said. "That-that would be nice."

"Okay," he said, and got to his feet. "I'll ask tonight and maybe—" He paused, unwilling to give false hope. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. It was nice to meet you," Emily said, and held out her hand—the one with four fingers. Jason sensed it was a test. He didn't hesitate. He took her hand in his and clasped it gently. Her skin was warm and dry, just like his.

"Nice to meet you too," he said, and meant it.

"What did you think of Doctor House's clinic?" Sarah asked on the way home.

"It's great," he said. "I met one of the patients. She was sitting in that little room off the kitchen, playing a keyboard."

"Emily," Aunt Sarah said. She flashed him a smile. "How'd it go?"

"I'd like to go to the clinic after school and do my homework there," Jason said. "To keep her company."

Sarah stopped for a red light. "Why?" she asked quietly. Jason fidgeted.

"She's scared," he said finally. "I know her mom is there, but she's afraid of the tests. I thought maybe . . . she wouldn't be as afraid if she had someone to talk to. And . . ." He paused.

"Go ahead," Sarah said, and moved Minnie Lou forward as the light turned green. "What else?"

"I'd like to find out what's wrong with her," Jason said. "She's only got nine fingers, and she can't move her face. And her eye is messed up. But she's okay otherwise, I mean who she is. She's—she's _inside_ all of that," he said, frustrated by his inability to express his opinion in better terms.

"That she is," Sarah said softly. "If Greg and Gibbs say it's okay, it's fine by me." She eased the truck around the big bend that meant they were only a minute or two from the house. "I'm proud of you," she said.

Jason looked out the window. "I'm just being nosy," he said. Sarah laughed.

"Maybe, but in the best of ways," she said. "You're being kind too. That's even more important. Nice work." She put up her hand. Jason rolled his eyes.

"So lame," he groaned, but he smacked her hand with his and enjoyed her laugh, sweet and full. _Wonder if Emily can laugh like that,_ he thought, and hoped Gibbs would approve his plan too.

'_I Can't Judge Nobody,' Smokey Smothers _


	2. Chapter 2

_December 7th_

When Greg walks into the kitchen, the fragrance of chicken, rosemary and garlic wafts through his thoughts about his patients, and scatters half-formed conclusions in its wake. He takes a moment to savor the contrast: chill and lonely outside, warm and welcoming inside. Then he bangs the door shut behind him, and just misses the cat. Hellboy jumps up on a chair and gives him a mildly indignant look. "Heh," Greg says, and rubs the top of the Heebster's head. He enjoys the way the cat arches into his touch, black fur silky and soft.

The kitchen appears deserted; there's a pan on the stove with dinner, but no Roz. He gives Hellboy a final scritch and goes forward to look at what's to eat and poke it with a handy spoon. He's about to dip in for a taste when his wife enters the kitchen with the phone to her ear. "Okay, I'll come over tomorrow—" She sees him and there's the slightest hesitation before she continues the conversation. "—and we'll work on it. Great. 'bye."

"Ah ah, naughty," he says, and wags the spoon at her in reproof. "Keeping secrets from your significant other."

Roz removes the spoon from his grasp and sets it on the counter. "Dinner's almost ready," she says, and kisses his cheek. Her hand brushes his back, a slight, sweet caress. It's almost enough distraction to make him ignore the phone call, but he's sure he knows what it was about, and he wants to get the truth out of her. He'll bide his time though. If he pounces too soon, it will get him nothing but sass and evasions.

Lately they've eaten in the kitchen once or twice a week. Roz found an old harvest table in a barn where she'd been called in for some rewiring; the owner had given it to her, along with several chairs. A thorough clean and some repair revealed a gem of solid black walnut, hand-hewn planks and lathe-turned legs, a bit battered and worn with many decades of use, but still in good shape. It occupies pride of place in their home now. There's a woven basket full of mail at one end, some gloves and a half-eaten chocolate bar thrown down next to them, and the kitchen radio; a pair of candlesticks made from wooden bobbins reside at the other end. It's nothing like the semi-formal settings his mother was forced to provide. He doesn't find it painful to sit with his wife at this table, to enjoy a good dinner and talk with her about the day's events. He still prefers to camp out on the couch, but he knows she enjoys this time with him, so he makes sure it happens.

At the moment they partake of Roz's chicken and rice while the local NPR station plays in the background with the day's news. He waits, lets her make small talk, lulls her into a false sense of security. Then when she's about to get up and take her plate to the sink, he pounces. "When are you and your sinister accomplice going to admit you plan on stealing my bathrobe and replacing it with some hideous imitation?"

Roz sits down again. "What makes you think—"

"Blah-dy blah blah," he says, and waves away the obligatory objection. "I found the pattern envelope in your jeans pocket. Don't bother to deny it."

Roz gives him a cool look down her long straight nose. "You went through my pockets?"

It's a good strategic maneuver; immediately he's on the defensive. "Your jeans were in the washer. It's a-a public area. It's not like I picked through your trash or something."

"You invaded my privacy?"

"You're planning a raid on my personal effects," he accuses. "Don't take the high road with me."

Without a word she gets up and carries her plate to the sink, where she attacks it with vigor. Greg watches her. Anxiety creeps up to tighten his gut. Slowly he rises and brings his plate with him. When he hands it to her she takes it, and he catches a glimpse of her face. She's trying hard not to smile. His anxiety is replaced by annoyance. "I'm glad you think this is funny," he snaps. "I don't," and waits for her to go off on him. Instead she puts the plate in the sink, wipes her fingers on the dishtowel and turns to him. To his surprise she takes his hands in hers and leads him back to the table, where they sit down to face each other.

"Tell me about your bathrobe," she says. Greg glares at her, confused by her question.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Nope." Her clasp tightens a bit, gentle but firm. "Tell me about it. Why does it mean so much to you?"

"I don't know! I've—I've had it a long time, I don't need another one!"

For answer she looses her hold and gets up, leaving the kitchen to return with the garment in question. "Look," she says simply, and displays the collar, which has numerous frayed holes and barely hangs on. The hem is non-existent, and there are big rips under the arms. The fabric itself is worn and threadbare.

"So what?" he says, defiant now. "I don't care."

"Why does this mean so much to you?" she asks again.

"When my sister hid me in a basket in the river she wrapped me in it. It's my mother's clan pattern," he says. "Sort of a Dutch tradition, they like to send their kids to other families that way."

Roz narrows her eyes. "Come on," she says. Greg gives a dramatic sigh.

"Yeah, okay." He pauses. "My parents put it in my spaceship before they sent me away from Krypton."

"Gregory." The laugh trembles in her voice.

"Uh oh, full name," he pretends to cower in fear.

"All right, fine. Don't tell me." She leans in and kisses him lightly, then gets up and goes back to her dishes. He watches her, suspicious of some ulterior motive, but she just cleans up, wipes her hands again and goes into the living room. After a moment he hears the tv turn on.

He takes his bathrobe to the bedroom and hides it behind some boxes on the top shelf in the closet. Then he enters the living room and takes the easy chair. Roz flips through channels and settles on an episode of _Kitchen Nightmares_.

"Oh, not the Brit again," Greg groans. "Don't you ever get tired of this stupid show?"

"I think he's funny," Roz says in protest.

"He's a _dick!_"

"Maybe I like dicks," Roz says, and turns red.

"Hah," Greg says, jolted out of his irritation by sheer amusement. Roz burrows deeper into the corner of the couch. She's scarlet to her hairline. He loves this about her; she can be so completely unflappable in the worst of crises, and still blush like a young girl when she gives him a great if inadvertent straight line. "Prove it."

"I'm here with you, aren't I?" she says with an attempt at a cheeky smirk, and utters a squeak when he pops out of his chair and goes after her. But she doesn't even pretend to resist. Her arms steal around him, and her kiss is sweet. She doesn't play him—well, not exactly. There's an ulterior motive, but it's a distant second to what she really wants, and that's to have him close to her. That simple fact never fails to amaze him. She hasn't tired of him, she doesn't push him away or shut him out; she welcomes his touch, his kiss, his presence. It's the most incredible feeling, one he will never take for granted though she won't know that, because he doesn't plan to tell her.

The next thing he knows they're headed for the bedroom and his wife unbuttons his shirt. Her slender fingers pull the tails out of his jeans, her mouth hot and sweet on his, and he forgets everything except the taste of her, the sensation of her hips; her breasts brush his upper diaphragm as she slowly backs him through the doorway and to the bed.

They make love slow and intense. He brings her to the edge several times before they fall over it together while they hang on for dear life. When she's sufficiently recovered she kisses him, rests her head on his shoulder and makes a sleepy little noise of satisfaction before she snuggles in. Greg stifles something that could be a laugh and turns toward her a bit.

"Well done," he says. "You're still not getting my robe."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Roz says, and pinches his butt, which leads to a short battle he wins when he pins her hands and steals a kiss. It isn't until later, when they're both headed toward sleep, that he addresses the issue directly.

"I bought it the year before my leg imploded," he says quietly. They're curled up spoon fashion with him behind her; his face is buried in her soft hair. He remembers the shopping trip, how Stacy teased him about his questionable taste in colors, his indifference to anything beyond a good fit and a decent price; a time when nothing mattered but a robe that wouldn't cling to his knees when he put it on after his bath.

Roz's hands come up to cover his. She says nothing, but then she doesn't have to. _Trust me_, that silent gesture says so clearly he can hear her voice in his head. He breathes in her scent and feels her warmth, the steady soft thump of her heartbeat, and closes his eyes on a mixture of fear and something he won't call hope.

_December 8th_

Sarah added the last of the flour into the KitchenAid and turned it on low, her thoughts several steps ahead on the list of things to do. This was the third and last batch of gingerbread dough; once it was done she'd put it in the freezer along with the others and move to the next item on her list—to put up greens around the house, as they usually did.

"And the tree," she said under her breath. Gene would be home later in the day and had promised to go with her to pick one out. The thought made her palms sweaty, but she did her best to bring up the good memories of last year's tree and the beauty it had lent their home.

She'd just taken the last of the dough out of the bowl when a strange feeling passed over her, an odd sort of electric spark that sent a shudder clear to her bones. Sarah set the bowl on the counter and jumped when someone put a hand on her shoulder. She turned her head. Bob Gibbs stood next to her. He looked sad and excited at the same time. "I'm sorry," he said. The hair on the back of Sarah's neck stood up; gooseflesh rose on her skin.

"_Bob?_" she whispered, but no one answered her; no one was there. She closed her eyes and swallowed as an almighty shock passed through her. _Oh no,_ she thought.

Ten minutes later she had decided to check on Gibbs and Jason just in case her imagination hadn't played a trick on her. She finished the last button on her coat when the landline phone rang. The caller ID showed Jason's name; he used his own phone, the one she and Gene had bought for him. "Doctor Goldman," he sounded very young, and scared. "I—I need your help. Can you come over?"

"I'm on my way." She mustered all the calm reassurance she could find. "Sit tight, okay?"

"Okay." Jason's relief was palpable.

She called Greg next. "I think Bob Gibbs died," she said when Roz put him on. "Can you meet me at his place?"

There was a pause, then a terse "Yeah." No interrogation, no disbelief; his trust in her warmed Sarah's cold insides a little.

I'll call Diane and have the coroner come out, but we need a doctor to—to confirm." Sarah did her best to keep her voice steady.

Greg was silent a moment. "The kid called you," he said finally.

"Yeah. I'm headed over now. Jason's there alone."

Without another word Greg hung up. Sarah ended the call, notified Diane and left, glad for the numbness inside. She'd need it to get through the next couple of days.

Jason waited for her, Sarah could see him through the kitchen door window. When he let her in she opened her arms. He went into them without hesitation and held her tight, his face buried in her coat. He trembled a little.

Bob was in his bed, the covers over him. It looked like he was asleep, but when Sarah felt for his pulse there was none, and his chest didn't rise. His skin was still warm to the touch, but a bit cooler than normal body temperature.

"When he didn't come down I came to see . . ." Jason stood close behind her. Sarah sat on the bed. She felt a lump rise in her throat.

"Are you scared?" she asked quietly. Jason nodded. "That's okay, it's natural to feel that way. May I touch you?"

He nodded again, and didn't resist when she slipped an arm around his waist and brought him close. "He died in his sleep," she said. "Look at his face, Jason. He was at peace when it happened. I think he went quickly and without pain. That's a very good way to go. He deserved it too, he was a wonderful man." She glanced at Bob's hands, worn and gnarled from years of hard work. "This is what will happen to all of us someday. It's nothing to be afraid of."

They stood there for a few moments. Sarah felt Jason relax a bit, and his breathing evened out.

"Do you think he went to heaven?" he asked finally. "Or . . . maybe you think he's dead and there's nothing left?" There was bewilderment in the question, and an unspoken longing for reassurance.

"Some people believe when we die nothing survives, that death is the end," she said after a while. "I don't believe in heaven or hell, but I think our spirits continue on somehow. What made Bob who he was isn't there now. This is just his physical body, not his mind and soul."

"Is—is it okay if I touch him?"

"Of course," Sarah said. Jason reached down and put his hand over Bob's.

"He's not all stiff."

"That's called rigor mortis," Sarah said softly. "It happens after a few hours and only lasts for a little while, it's a natural part of the process our bodies go through after death." She patted him gently. "This is how life works, Jason. It's just as much a miracle as pregnancy and birth. It's how our world sustains itself. We're born, we live and die, and after we're gone someone else is born and goes through the same cycle. Our bodies return to the earth we came from, to be made into other things—soil, grass, flowers, maybe a tree, insects and animals. But I think our spirits go on to other places and journeys. I don't have any proof of that, it's just what I believe."

After a moment Jason straightened. "I liked him. He was always nice to me, he never yelled or—or anything." He paused. "I think he liked me too."

"He did," Sarah said. "He enjoyed having you here with him. Whenever he and I talked he would tell me about everything you'd been up to, how well you're doing in school and how you helped out with chores without being asked. He was so proud of you." She rubbed his back and heard the kitchen door bang. "Here's Doctor House now."

Greg checked for vitals but it was a formality. "Coroner's on the way," he said, and shot Jason a look. "You understand he's dead."

Jason nodded and looked down. "This means I go back to my mom and dad, doesn't it?"

"No," Sarah said. "It means CFS will place you in a foster home. I'm going to petition them to have you stay with us." She ignored Greg's hard stare.

"Okay." Jason's relief was evident. "I—I missed the school bus."

"You're staying home for the rest of the week," Sarah said. "I'll call you in and get your homework for you. Can you pack your stuff? Just an overnight bag for now, bring your books. We'll pick up the rest later on tonight. You can use Doctor House's old room for now."

As Jason went to collect his things Greg said "You're giving that kid false hope."

"I'll call his case worker when we get home. You know she'll be more than happy to have him stay with us, it'll save her having to find a place for him in an already overburdened system," Sarah said. "I wouldn't have said anything if I wasn't sure about that."

Greg snorted but refrained from further comment. He looked down at Bob. A fleeting sadness crossed his face. "He was a good man," he said quietly after a moment, and got to his feet. "I'll talk to the coroner and walk the kid over to your place. You should call Gibbs' son."

Sarah nodded once; the lump in her throat was back, only bigger now. Greg put a hand on her shoulder. After a few moments he went out of the room.

An hour later Sarah walked into the barn. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, took in the smell of hay, manure and leather tack, the warmth generated by the horse, some dust motes in a beam of sunlight. Then she rummaged for an alfalfa cube from the bag by the oats bin, moved forward and went to Blackie's stall. As she approached he stuck his head out and flicked his ears forward, gave a snort and a little rumble of greeting. She entered the stall and put the cube in her palm. He made short work of it and snuffled over her empty hand in a silent query for more treats. The familiar gesture broke through the numbness. Sarah rested her forehead against Blackie's neck as she closed her eyes on hot tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, _cara_. He's gone."


	3. Chapter 3

_December 12th_

"One down, one to go," Greg says, not without some satisfaction. "Nice call on the Hartnup's, Singh. You've got a twenty year old groupie and her entire extended family ready to bronze your lab coat."

"It wasn't my call," Singh says, as Greg expected.

"Modest," Chase says. It's not a compliment, but not really a dig either. Singh looks over at him.

"It's the truth. I did the tests Doctor House asked for, that's all."

"Did the tests and drew the correct conclusion," Greg points out.

"So now we have Emily to focus on," Chandler says, quick to slip in her opinion—something Greg's noticed is habitual for her. He wonders how big her family was, how many brothers and sisters she had to compete with for attention. She also used the patient's first name; she's become personally involved, probably because of the patient's age. If Chandler does have siblings, it's a good bet at least one of them is younger than she is. "And a new case coming in later today, no doubt."

"No point in waiting," Greg said. "Plenty more where the chicky babe came from." He reaches behind him and takes a stack of files ready for perusal, deposits them in the middle of the table and gets up. "Discuss amongst yourselves. You've got fifteen minutes. Choose three and be ready to convince me," he says, and heads out to leave them to it.

His remaining patient is in the little room off the kitchen. She comes here any chance she gets, usually when she can escape her mother and Faust's affectionate but restrictive ministrations. She's got her keyboard set up, but she doesn't play. Instead she has a book of etudes—new, as he should know; he left it for her. She moves her body back when he comes in so she can look up at him. He notices her strabismus is more pronounced, probably due to stress—a symptom he catches because Wilson has the same problem, though not to her degree. Her dark eyes are full of eagerness, dampened by discomfort. The last test they did, the nerve conduction study, was hard on her. It's a painful procedure, as he knows all too well. She hasn't complained, though.

He sits down next to her and watches her move. There's low muscle tone, she's barely able to sit up straight and her body is underdeveloped aside from the facial and neck paralysis. But he's heard her play, and she's good. She's got a clear clean tone, firm and yet responsive to the expression of the music. If he didn't already know she was down a finger, he'd never have guessed it. No hesitation, no awkwardness; she moves with a grace he could almost covet, and all this despite an uphill struggle against a body that's betrayed her in so many ways.

"Do I need another test?" she asks, the words muffled and a bit distorted. With her undersized tongue, she struggles to form the vowels and consonants against her normal-sized teeth.

"Not at the moment," he says. "Play." He softens the command a bit with a compliment, one she's earned. "You're pretty good."

She can't smile, but her eyes brighten and she blushes a little. She sets the book on the keyboard rack and opens it to the first page, then begins to play the initial etude. He listens as he observes, and feels a distant sort of sorrow for her. She loves music and yet it'll be a source of frustration and pain as well as joy for the rest of her life, if his conclusions lead him where he thinks they will.

"You have a teacher," he says when she finishes.

"Mrs. Jenkins," she says. "She says I'm almost ready for someone better but I don't want anyone else." There is a sick child's fear of change in routine behind the defiance.

"You want to improve, you go with the better teacher," he says. She touches the keys with her deficient hand, and Greg is reminded for a moment of Roz.

"What's wrong with me?" she asks after a few moments. "Do you know?"

"Not yet." He's beginning to get an inkling though, something niggles at the back of his mind every time he watches her. It'll come to him soon, he knows it. "Still working on it. No more tests for now."

She can't nod but he feels her do it all the same. "Okay."

He leaves her in the sunshine, as she looks through the book at the treasures within. He won't admit, even to himself, that though it seems ridiculous, maybe he envies her just a little.

Sarah did her best not to tense as they pulled into the church parking lot. It overflowed with cars, trucks and people as they arrived from the funeral home where Gibbs's viewing had taken place. Gene found a spot for Minnie and parked, shut off the engine and turned to Jason and Sarah. "How's everyone doing?" he asked quietly. Jason looked down at his hands.

"I've never been to a funeral before," he said.

"It's a little like a church service," Sarah said. "It'll start with a prayer and a hymn. Pastor Ron will talk about Gibbs' life and then he'll probably give a short sermon on what he believes. After that a few people who knew Gibbs will talk about him, and we'll sing another hymn. Someone will offer a prayer, and then we'll go to the graveside." She paused. "You might feel sad or like crying. It's okay. Gene and I will be with you."

"I'm not a baby," Jason muttered.

"We know that," Gene said. His reassuring tone held no condescension. After a moment Jason sighed.

"Okay," he said, and scooted toward Sarah a bit. She took the hint and opened the door. Gene got out on his side and came around to stand by her.

"Are you up for this?" he asked quietly as they began to walk toward the church entrance, Jason a few steps ahead of them. "It's been a tough few days. You've gone through a lot."

"I'll be fine," she said. "It's not like I can say no now anyway, Pastor Ron's asked me to speak after the eulogy."

Gene sighed. "You're pushing yourself, Sare. I'm worried about you."

Sarah reached out and took his hand. "I'm okay," she said, and offered him a slight smile. "If things get bad I'll ask for help."

He watched her for a few moments. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand, a light touch. Then he nodded. "All right. I'll hold you to that. And I'll tell you now, if I see you're in trouble I'll take care of business myself."

Sarah squeezed his palm. "Okay, that's fair."

For all her fine words she paused in the doorway of the church. Gene glanced at her. She gave the place a once-over. Then she walked in slowly.

Of course she'd been in other churches since she'd left Oklahoma, but only for occasions like this, never for Sunday or holiday services. Her grandmother's faith had been austere to say the least; the meeting house hadn't been much more than four walls, a floor and ceiling, with hard pews to sit in. They hadn't believed in holidays so of course they hadn't decorated, hadn't even put a cloth on the communion table.

This church was quite different. Electric candle lights wreathed in evergreen boughs glowed in front of the simple stained-glass windows, and charming quilts and tapestries hung on the pine-paneled walls. The atmosphere was welcoming and warm, a place of real community. Sarah moved forward, encouraged by what she saw.

The pastor, tall and stooping, greeted both her and Gene with a quiet gentleness characteristic of him. "We've saved a place in the front row," he said as he guided them to the spot. "Rick asked that you sit with him, if that's all right."

Sarah nodded and drew in a deep breath as they found their seats at right center front, next to the closed casket. A seat almost directly in front of the pulpit held many memories, none of them good. _Another time and place_, Sarah reminded herself, and looked around a bit. Jason sat next to her, huddled close. "May I touch you?" she whispered softly. For answer he took her hand in his. Gene glanced over at her. He put his arm around her shoulder; his hand rested on the back of the pew behind Jason, to include him in the protective embrace.

The service was simple and short. When the time came for her to speak, Sarah rose and went to the pulpit. She used an old trick to distance herself from the emotion of the moment; she imagined a sheet of thick glass between her and the audience as she talked of Bob and her friendship with him. Toward the end she saw Greg. He stood by the entrance in the half-shadows. As she finished her remembrance, he opened the door and slipped out in silence.

It wasn't until she sat down with her family that her grief caught up with her. She took Jason's hand again and then Gene's too, and swallowed hard as tears welled and fell down her cheeks.

They went out into the cold for the graveside ceremony. The cemetery was across the road from the church; it was a short walk, but by the time they reached the canopy-covered site Sarah was glad of her thick coat.

Pastor Ron offered a simple prayer. Then the veteran honor guard came forward and fired three volleys, and a flag was presented to Rick by the leader of the local VFW post.

"Why did they do that?" Jason whispered.

"Gibbs was a Marine. He served during World War Two," Sarah said softly. "Veterans are honored for their service, whether they die during wartime or years later."

The ceremony completed, Sarah took a rose from the large bouquet nearby. She placed it on Gibbs' coffin, took off her glove and put her hand on the smooth wood. "Fair winds and following seas," she said, and felt Gene's arm slip around her waist.

"You know he'd scold you for saying goodbye the Navy way," he whispered. "He'd also want you to come in out of the cold. Let's see if they need some help at the church with the luncheon."

The basement was set up with long tables, white linens and folding chairs; the air was filled with the fragrance of baked ham and scalloped potatoes. Sarah went into the kitchen and found the pastor's wife, Dorothy, as she started another pot of coffee.

"Everything's ready," she said, and gave Sarah a little hug. "Get some plates for you and Gene and your boy. The others will be along in a few minutes."

_Our boy,_ Sarah thought, and savored the simple happiness that statement engendered despite her sorrow.

She was glad to see Jason tuck into the good food. Whatever else went on, he still had a healthy appetite. When Greg and Roz sat down across from them Sarah noticed his plate was as full as Jason's. The sight made her smile a little.

"The things you have to put up with to get a decent meal," Greg said, but he kept his voice down. Sarah knew it was a measure of respect for Gibbs that he didn't let the whole room know, and so she said nothing. Jason wasn't as tolerant, however.

"Don't talk like that," he said, and glared at Greg. "Mister Gibbs liked you, even though you're a jerk."

Greg returned the glare, though Sarah knew him well enough to detect a hint of sheepishness behind it. "Who asked you?" he snapped.

"Boys," Sarah said quietly, "that's enough." She put enough authority in her tone to shut them up. It worked, though they continued to give each other dire looks. Roz glanced at her and rolled her eyes slightly. Sarah stifled a chuckle and enjoyed this bit of normalcy as Rick sat down next to them with a cup of coffee. He visited for a few minutes before he moved on to the next group.

"I'd like you to come over tomorrow evening, if that's all right," he said. "There are some things we need to talk about. I think Dad mentioned you both in his will. The lawyer will be going over the details."

Gene nodded. "Okay, we'll be there."

Sarah listened as she took a bite of ham or potatoes now and then. She felt a bit detached, tired, ready to go home. She couldn't grieve for Bob here, as friendly and welcoming as the setting and people might be; it was a church, and she would never feel completely comfortable within its walls.

"Are you ready to leave?" Gene's quiet voice broke into her thoughts. Sarah nodded. She stole a look at Jason, who cleaned up a second piece of sheet cake. He would stay with them from now on; his case worker had been more than grateful for their willingness to take him in. That fact alone had made the day bearable.

They said their goodbyes at the door. "Please come to Vespers this Christmas Eve," Dorothy said. Her hands clasped Sarah's. "You and Gene are so diligent about making sure people in need have a good holiday, we'd love to have you attend the service so we can honor you—"

"No," Gene said, not unkindly. "We'll consider attending, but we prefer you don't say anything about what we do. No one needs to know except you and Pastor Ron."

The ride home was quiet until Jason spoke. "Why don't you want people to know how much you do for poor families?"

"It isn't necessary," Sarah said.

"But people should know," Jason insisted. "You do a lot."

"Why do you think we should tell everyone?" Sarah asked. She kept her tone one of mild inquiry. Jason thought about it for a moment.

"So you get a reward," he said. "It's only fair."

"We do get a reward," Gene said. "We helped someone in need."

"But no one knows about it!" Jason said. He sounded impatient now.

"If we help other people and then talk about it afterwards so everyone knows how generous we are, then we're not doing it for the right reasons," Gene said.

"You mean you'd be doing it for you and not the other person," Jason said slowly. Gene nodded.

"Exactly."

"But what difference does it make? You're still helping."

"If you're generous to make yourself look good, you're not generous at all," Sarah said. "It's a lie. You'd be better off doing nothing."

Jason didn't say anything more, but later that evening as he took his backpack to Greg's old room, he said "A lot of big companies help charities."

"They do," Sarah agreed. She opened the door and put the clean sheets she carried on the easy chair, then began to strip the bed.

"Everyone knows they do it. They get awards for it. But according to what you said, it doesn't mean anything."

Sarah shook the first pillow out of its case. "Companies help charities because it makes them look good, among other reasons. But some of them do genuinely want to help."

"So how can you tell the difference?" Jason wanted to know.

"Look at the other actions the company takes. If they harm the environment or don't treat their workers well, you can presume their contributions to charity are not sincere. But it's better to pay attention to your own actions and motives for what you do, and not someone else's." She removed the fitted sheet. "Sometimes you do something just because it's the right thing to do. Gene and I give to others because we really want to as well. We like helping out. Other people have helped us, and it's a way for us to give back, to pay it forward. You've heard of that term?"

"Yeah." Jason sounded intrigued. "What does it mean?"

"It's when someone does something nice for you, and in turn you do something nice for someone else, and then maybe they do something for another person. It's fun." Sarah smiled at him as she bundled the sheets and put them on the floor. "Maybe you'd like to join in with us sometime to see what it's like."

"Yeah," Jason said. He sounded a little uncertain but still willing. "Yeah, maybe."

When the bed was made, Sarah picked up the sheets and went to the door. "Gene and Doctor Chase said they're up for a round of Hot Pursuit if you are," she said. She felt a little awkward but excited too. "I know we ate a big lunch, but if you get hungry there's plenty of stuff in the kitchen, help yourself."

Jason sat on the bed. He stroked the comforter with his hand. "Okay," he said, and glanced at the little fireplace. "Can I have a fire later?"

"Of course," Sarah said. "Just ask one of us to help you with it like you've been doing."

"Yeah." He nodded. Sarah took a breath.

"I'm really glad you're here," she said softly. Jason looked up at her. His dark eyes held a shy pleasure that made her heart ache.

"Me too," he said. "I'll come out in a few minutes, I want to change my clothes."

"Okay," Sarah said. She paused, then went on. "One more thing. No one will ever come into your room without knocking first. This is your space and everyone will respect that."

"There's no lock on either side," Jason said. Sarah's happiness dimmed a little. _So he checked that out right away,_ she thought. _Well, at his age I would have done the same._

"There's no need for one," she said. "No one enters private rooms in our house without asking permission first, and no one will ever lock you in. You have my word on this, Jason."

"Okay," he said finally. Sarah said nothing more, just went out and shut the door behind her. She took the sheets to the mudroom and put them in the washer with some soap, started the load and sat down in the old chair by the door, surprised to find she was exhausted.

"I thought so," Gene said from the doorway, and came to claim her.

She spent the rest of the afternoon and evening curled up the couch under a thick blanket. drowsed on and off, and reveled in the sound of her husband and their boy as they competed with Chase's gaming expertise.


	4. Chapter 4

_December 18th_

It's a cold calm evening. The day full of flurries and sun has given way to a clear sky full of stars and high up, a silver crescent of moon. It sheds pale light over the countryside, and the hill where a small group of humans are engaged in the peculiar activity of sliding over snow on various contrivances designed to minimize friction and maximize speed.

Greg pauses at the top of the run to catch his breath. He puts his hand over his right thigh, more from force of habit than anything else. No problems there; the new muscle handles the demands placed on it with only a little stiffness and even better, almost no pain. Some might call it foolhardy to risk damage or accident, but he's made the run from clinic to home and back again all week with no results for his young patient and he hopes this change will jog something loose, give him a fresh perspective.

He glances down the hill. Roz and Sarah are on their way up. Tractor-tire inner tubes trail behind them as they talk and laugh. Gene and Jason pelt each other with snow at the bottom of the hill.

"Get a move on, you two!" Sarah yells. A moment later a snowball sails past her head, but her men comply and trudge up the hill together. There will be hot chocolate and cookies at the house later, in part to celebrate the anniversary of Jason's arrival in their lives. Hard to believe it's been a year already. _Sometimes it feels like I've been here forever,_ Greg thinks, and feels a distant surprise at the lack of misery in that realization. Most of his sojourns have been accompanied by the M word, so any change is something to notice and ponder, that excellent word to which Sarah has added so much meaning.

"You gonna stand around all night or have some fun?" Roz says. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, her dimples on display; she's bundled into her big parka and homemade scarf and mittens and a silly striped cap, her jeans tucked into her boots.

"Too much work. Fifteen minutes to get up, fifteen seconds to slide down," he says, though he fully intends to make the round trip as many times as possible before his wife calls it quits. "Sounds like our sex life."

"Oh, shut up and climb on," Roz says on a laugh.

"Is that an invitation?" he leers at her as he moves toward her.

"Maybe, _amante_." She reaches out and takes his hand, moves in to kiss him. When it's done she pulls the inner tube close and plops into it with the skill of long experience. Greg settles in next to her, slips his arm around her waist, and pushes them off.

The hill has about a twelve percent grade that levels out at the bottom into a low sweep, so they gather speed quickly and then coast for quite a distance, to skim the hard-packed snow with a few hard bumps here and there. Roz is snuggled in against him. She gives little squeaks of mingled delight and fear as they go briefly airborne several times, then glide to a slow stop. When they get to the end she gives him a kiss, a quick fiery buss that makes his body tingle. Then she stands up and yells "WOOOOOOHOOOO!" The echo comes back after a moment, faint and cool. He can't help but chuckle.

"Hey," someone says. It's the Aussie, almost unrecognizable in a North Face parka, red mittens and hat, a big scarf wound around his neck like a boa constrictor. His handsome face is creased in a grin. At his side is a brand new snow saucer with a pristine tow rope. "Decided to crash your party."

"Don't use the word 'crash'," Roz says with a smile. She likes Chase; to her he's a precocious, charming young guy, fun to watch and never to be trusted, and that suits Greg just fine. "Have you done this before?"

Chase looks offended. "Yeah, a time or two."

"How does 'never' count as 'a time or two'?" Greg says.

"Well . . . okay, never," Chase says, sheepish now.

"It's easy. You go to the top and come down. But first you'll tell me why you're here when we have two patients in the clinic."

"Chandler's on call and McMurphy decided to hang out. Besides, we're all of two minutes away if there's an emergency." Chase's words lose their slight edge of petulance as he slips into diagnostics mode. "We've run every test we can think of on both Emily and Patterson at the moment, which means waiting for results to come in and that won't happen until tomorrow at the earliest. Anyway, I just—" He stops.

"Continue," Greg says. He knows what's comes next, but he's aware Chase needs to say it anyway.

"I, uh . . . this seemed like a chance to clear my mind, get a fresh perspective. Emily's a good kid," his whole demeanor softens. "We need to find out what's what. She deserves to know what she's dealing with. So does Mister Patterson."

Greg couldn't agree more. The older guy, well, they've chipped away at his case fairly steadily. But the girl's become a favorite with everyone—great for her, bad news for any attempt at an impartial Ddx. It's imperative they get her condition sussed before the bathos becomes a total liability and any further attempts at deduction are made impossible. "So get busy," he says. Chase nods and turns to trudge up the hill. Greg waits until the younger man's about ten feet away to aim a snowball at the back of his head.

It's after nine by the time they call it quits. The gear is loaded in Minnie Lou's flatbed and everyone migrates across the village to the Goldmans place. It looks like a Christmas card, with mellow light in the windows and a big wreath on the door. Greg remembers his first look at this place and feels that odd sense of homecoming, sweet and a little sad at the same time. When Roz's small hand finds his he says nothing, just clasps her cold fingers in his.

Of course there's a vat of cocoa, sans alcohol in deference to Chase, and a platter of cookies big enough to feed an army. The stereo cranks out Christmas songs done funk style; trust Gene to find something this cool. Maybe they could add a few tracks to their repertoire for the party on the twenty-third. But the big surprise is the tree, a nice Fraser fir loaded with lights and ornaments and piled with gifts underneath.

"When did you do all this?" he asks Sarah when she finally comes out of the kitchen, a plate of cookies and mug of cocoa in hand. She sits down next to him and laughs when he steals a cookie, even though his own plate is still loaded.

"You're incorrigible," she says, and her sea-green eyes gleam with affection. "We decorated it this afternoon, all of us." The pride in her voice is evident.

"My goodness," Greg says, his tone mild. "First playing outside in the cold, and now this. It's a gosh-darn Christmas miracle."

Sarah's smile fades. For just a moment she's utterly still, and he senses that in the time it takes her heart to beat once she's gone a long way from this place, both in distance and time. She looks at him but says nothing for a few moments. There's no rancor or hurt in her gaze, but the clear depths are shuttered, her enjoyment gone. "I wouldn't call it that," she says quietly.

"Then you tell me what it is," he says as he watches her, wary now. He's about to begin an interrogation when Jason takes up residence in the chair on the other side of Sarah.

"Rob wants to play Grand Theft Auto, is it okay if I play too?" he asks, and stuffs a whole icebox cookie in his mouth. Just that quickly, the odd suspension disappears.

"If you eat like that you'll dislocate your jaw," Sarah says. Her tone holds a slight quiver Greg doubts anyone else would hear, but he knows her well by now. "Yes, go ahead. One hour, then off to bed with both of you."

"Yes, mother dear," Chase says as he passes by, sarcasm incarnate. Sarah gives him the hairy eyeball.

"Be nice or I'll make you shovel the front and the back walks," she says. "And put down the ashes." She glances at Greg. _We'll talk later_, that look says. He knows she means it but he'll also hold her to her silent promise, so he relents a bit.

"Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-OOH-oooooh," Greg mocks. "Chase is in _trou_-ble!"

"Hush up or you'll join him," Sarah threatens.

"You can't boss me around, I'm a married man."

"Shows how much you know," Gene says behind him. He perches on the arm of Sarah's chair; his foot taps in time to the music, and he munches a cookie in much the same manner as young Jason just demonstrated. Sarah rolls her eyes.

"Surrounded by rude and uncouth boys," she says. "Where's Roz? I need moral support."

"She's upstairs," Gene says. Something in his tone tells Greg this is about the Big Secret that's no longer one, not for him anyway.

"Ah, putting loving stitches into my sweet lil' homemade giftie," he says. Now it's his turn to get the stern look.

"If you keep pullin' Santa's beard to prove he's a fake, you won't get anything under the tree or in your stockin', junior," Sarah says. Greg can't help a twitch of the lips.

"Jeez, _Mom_," he whines, as Roz joins him. She sits on his left leg and snitches a cookie from his plate. "Hey!"

"Shame, shame," she says, and gives him a haughty look, her eyes full of laughter. "I know for a fact you're getting nothing but coal."

"Sis, we live with cynics," Sarah says. Greg glares at her.

"Who didn't even put up a tree until last year?" he gibes. "You have no stones to throw."

Sarah doesn't flinch. "Where's your tree?" she tosses right back at him. Roz looks away, but not before he sees the grin she tries to hide.

"Hah! You planned this," he accuses his wife, who is rises to leave but can't, because he's got a firm hold of her hand. "You scheming little minx!"

"I did not!" Roz says hotly. "I told you last week I wanted a tree!"

She's right, he remembers the conversation now, such as it was. "Bah and humbug," he grouses, in an attempt to save face. "I suppose you'll be wanting Christmas Day off as well."

That gets him a general laugh and a specific kiss from his wife, her hand on his. For a fleeting moment he wishes his old team and Cuddy could see him now. They'd never believe it. He can barely take it in himself. It's disgusting how much he enjoys all this nonsense, but he doesn't care.

It's late when they get home; the sky has clouded up and a few flakes already fall, a harbinger for the next storm on its way. Hellboy is curled up on the bed, snuggled into the pile of clothes Greg left draped across the foot.

"You know, I could pick up a tree after work tomorrow," Roz says from the bathroom, where she's washing her face. For a moment Greg entertains the idea, but to let her go alone would be to pass up so many chances at harassment . . .

"No way. You picked on me, now I get to return the favor," he says. "We get the damn tree together, then you can take me out to dinner to make up for the hideous trauma of it all. You're decorating it though. I got a rash from all the cuteness last year."

"Yeesh," Roz says in mock disgust, and Greg grins as he toes off his sneakers. "Okay, fine, Ebenezer."

She falls asleep quickly, as is usual for her. Greg listens to her even breathing and finds his thoughts drawn to Sarah's odd reaction to his snark. She'd frozen, her expression a mask . . . a _mask_ . . . He draws in a breath, rolls over and grabs his phone.

"It's Moebius syndrome," he says when Chandler answers at the clinic. "Talk to the girl's mom, ask her if she was prescribed misoprostal to induce an abortion." He pushes through the expected indignant squawk. "I don't care, just do it! Could have been cocaine instead, ask her. She'll lie, push until she tells you the truth or cold-cocks you. Then call Chase and tell him to get his ass down there. We'll need those test results to confirm cranial nerve damage. There's probably congenital hypoplasia of the nuclei, but only a researcher can tell us that—it doesn't matter, we'll have someone look at genetic markers, thirteen Q twelve point two and one P twenty-two." He pauses. "Talk to the mom about surgery for the strabismus. Check the kid's corneas while you're at it, make sure they're not getting torn up. And don't call me back with results, I'll be in in twelve hours or so." He hangs up and feels Roz turn over to face him.

"Mmmm . . . you figured it out." Her sleepy voice holds a smile. Greg reaches to bring her closer.

"Yeah," he says. His fears about the loss of his mojo to peace of mind grow a little more distant. _Two down, a bazillion more to go._


	5. Chapter 5

_December 22nd_

_Yule (winter solstice)_

Sarah lit the last of the votives and stood back a bit. The small lights gleamed bright against the dark glass of the windowpane, a harbinger of the sunrise visible from this vantage point in a few hours. She tucked an errant curl behind her ear and went into the kitchen, where the first batch of gingerbread was thawed and ready to roll out.

She'd just put the third and fourth pans of cookies in the oven when Jason appeared in the doorway. It was obvious he'd arrived straight out of bed; his dark hair was tousled, and his robe hung in a haphazard fashion over his tee shirt and flannel pants. Sarah was reminded strongly of Gene, who was not a morning person in any way. Apparently their soon-to-be son wasn't either. She hid a smile and said softly, "Good morning. Happy Yule."

Jason squinted at her and frowned. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Baking gingerbread people for the party tomorrow." She set aside her rolling pin and retrieved a salad plate, put two broken cookies on it, placed the plate on the counter and pushed it toward him. "Have a taste."

Slowly Jason entered the kitchen and took a piece of gingerbread. He bit into it. After a moment he sat down and reached for another piece.

"Want some milk to go with that?" Sarah enjoyed the pleased surprise in his expression. Jason nodded.

"It's sorta spicy, like pumpkin pie," he said around the mouthful of cookie. "'sgood."

"Thanks." She began to roll out dough. "Maybe tonight you can help decorate, if you like. Gene and Doctor House and Roz will be here, and Rob."

"Okay." He drank some milk and glanced at her, then down at his plate. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." Sarah pressed the cutter into the dough.

"Why do you want to adopt me?"

_Yikes,_ Sarah thought. _He might not be a morning person, but he's definitely into deep philosophical discussions right off the bat. I'll have to warn Gene. _"We like you," she said aloud.

"Why?"

She set the cutter aside and sat down to face Jason. "We like who you've chosen to be, not just what you do or say. Do you understand what I mean?"

Jason shook his head. "There's nothing special about me," he said.

"There's where you're wrong," Sarah said gently. "You're a great young man, with intelligence and a big heart. What's not to like?"

"But my family . . ." He fidgeted a little.

"Jason," Sarah said. She waited until he looked up. "It's true that you carry your mother and father's DNA, and you probably have a lot of really bad memories of the way they treated you. But you're more than the sum of your physical being and what you remember. It's who you've decided to be that shows who you really are. You've chosen to be a good person when you've had plenty of reasons not to be. Both Gene and I are proud of you for that alone."

Jason was silent a few moments. "I'm not always good," he said.

"I know. That's okay, Gene and I aren't either," Sarah said with a slight smile. "We don't expect you to be perfect,_m'chridhe_."

"What's that mean, 'macree'?" Jason ate another piece of cookie.

"It's Gaelic—the Irish language," she said. "It means 'my heart'." She laughed when he rolled his eyes and looked disgusted.

"Don't use that around Mandy," he said, and Sarah laughed again as Gene shambled into the kitchen. His dark hair stuck up all over his head, and his eyes were mere slits. His bathrobe hung half open, one side hitched up over the belt.

"What's so damn funny?" he growled. Sarah got to her feet.

"Nothing, dear," she told her husband. "Sit down and I'll get you some coffee."

He obeyed, and took the mug of steaming black brew when she handed it over. "Thanks."

"Oooh, a thank you already this morning. I'm impressed," Sarah dared to tease, and leaned in to kiss his bristly cheek. Jason snickered and Gene glared at him. He reached out to snitch a piece of cookie and dunked it in the mug before he munched it.

"Can I try that?" Jason asked.

"Just one bite," Sarah said, and chuckled when he made a face at the taste. "All right, young man. Go get dressed for school. Breakfast will be ready when you come back."

"Scrambled eggs and sausage?" Jason sounded hopeful as he headed for the door. "And cinnamon toast?"

"You got it. Make sure you put on clean jeans and wear a flannel over your sweater, I don't want you catching cold," Sarah said, and smiled at his groan.

"You're spoilin' that boy," Gene said, but he sounded pleased.

"Well you get spoiled right along with him, so don't yell too loud." She set the skillet on the stove and fired it up, then went to the fridge to gather ingredients.

"Huh." Gene sipped his coffee. He rose, took the mug and meandered out of the kitchen. He'd be back to share breakfast with them. Sarah hugged the knowledge to herself and glanced at the votives as they flickered on the wide windowsill in the dining room. _We must do right by this child,_ she thought. The anxiety she'd been battling all week rose up before her, dark and threatening. _He's already been through so much . . . and we can only give him our poor best, flawed creatures that we are, and consider it sufficient unto the day._

After a moment a song came to her. She closed her eyes, hearing it play out in her mind. "'Give me love/give me love/give me peace on earth,'" she sang along under her breath. "'Give me light/give me life/keep me free from birth/give me hope, help me cope/with this heavy load/trying to touch and reach you/with heart and soul . . .'" She closed her eyes and drew in a slow deep breath, let the words resonate deep within, felt their power. Then she began to crack eggs into a bowl, her intent to have breakfast ready when her men came back.

_9:45 a.m._

He can smell the gingerbread from the porch, a rich spicy fragrance that makes his mouth water even though he's got a full belly from the substantial breakfast he ate not a half hour previous. Greg pushes the door open, walks in and bangs it shut behind him, stomps the snow from his sneakers. He heads for the kitchen, enjoys the warmth and the homely sound of the radio and the clatter of baking sheets—all familiar and in an odd way, comforting.

"Hey," Sarah says when he comes in. She's wrapped in one of her big white aprons, her red-gold curls tied back with a blue bandana. The place is crammed with cookies; apparently she's done with the baking and works on the icing for the decoration party later that evening. Greg takes a gingerbread man from the pan and bites into it, savors the explosion of spices, sugar and molasses on his tongue.

"I suppose it's useless for me to point out there are broken pieces available for consumption," Sarah says in a dry tone.

"Busted cookies are for nerds," he says, and filches another whole one.

"Good thing I always make an extra dozen just for you then. Want some coffee?"

Greg dunks and munches while Sarah mixes the icing. He watches her work. She's quiet, her expression . . . not unhappy or sad, but a far cry from her usual brightness. Something weighs on her, and while he has a good idea what it is, he'll let her bring it up first. He doesn't have long to wait. When the icing's done and carefully covered for use later, she takes her cup of tea in hand, appropriates the stool next to his and faces him.

"I need your perspective," she says.

Greg considers those simple words; for all their plainness they are freighted with meaning. She chose 'need', not 'like'. While she's not desperate, she is worried by whatever it is she wants to talk about. And 'perspective' is fairly obvious—not 'opinion' or 'advice'. "'kay," he says, cautious but willing to listen at least. Sarah nods.

"Okay." She stares down at her hands. "It's occurred to me over the last couple of weeks that it's time for me to . . . look at . . ." She hesitates. "God, this is hard."

"Take your time," Greg says with exaggerated tolerance, willing to be patient to get the goods. Sarah lifts her head at that.

"Shut up," she says, but there's a smile in her words, and her gaze holds humor. "Blackmailer."

"_Moi_?" he says in a wounded tone, eyes wide.

"Yeah, you." Sarah blows out a gusty breath. "Fine, might as well just say it. I'm scared of how my fears will affect Jason."

He can't help it, he has to chuckle if not laugh outright. Sarah gives him a resigned glare. "Not helping," she says.

"Would you listen to yourself?" he says when he can talk. "You're afraid of being afraid. It's so deliciously muddle-headed."

"Okay, fine. Mock me all you like, but I'm afraid of causin' that boy more problems than he's already got," she says, her words sharp now. "I don't want to be another in a long line of idiots who've kicked him around and given him pain because they're loaded with neuroses. I'm serious, Greg."

"You had the same dilemma with me not so long ago," Greg says, "and look how I turned out, Mommy Dearest." He sits back. "I don't think you're questioning your effect on Jason as much as you're evaluating how you face your own fears and finding your method lacking, to say the least. So change it. And ask for some help while you're at it."

That's a very tall order for her; it strikes at the core of her professional pride as well as her progress in her personal healing. She sits there and struggles with what he's said, fights and kicks even as she accepts it. He's watched her do this time and again—face her mistakes and flaws, even when it shreds her certainties and leaves her naked and vulnerable.

"Yes," she says finally. Greg cannot help but respect her for this admission. Not one person in a thousand would be willing to do this. It's simple and therefore immensely difficult, not to mention humiliating. But she'll manage it all the same and move forward toward the truth.

"What are you gonna do?" he says quietly, after they've sat there in silence for a while.

"I don't know," she says. "Have to ponder it for a while. Do a little reading, a little research." She looks at him then. "Ask for some help." She dips her head. "Thanks."

"Another life saved by the application of simple logic," he says, just to get her going. Sarah offers a smile, a little dim but it's genuine for all that.

"I mean for being a real friend," she says. "For not pulling your punches to make me feel better or offer comfort."

"Are you sure you realize to whom you're speaking?" he inquires, incredulous. That does make her laugh.

"Yeah, all right. Point taken." She gets to her feet. So does he, waiting for the hug he knows is coming. But she surprises him by putting her hand on his arm—that light, gentle touch that conveys so much more than a conventional pat on the back or embrace: respect, affection, hope. "Thanks anyway."

He looks down at her, this remarkable woman who has no idea how she shines bright, like a single light in immense darkness. "You're welcome," he says, and means it.

[H]

"Is this really necessary?"

Roz ignored Greg's glower and eased the truck into the field, the heater on full blast. "I think we'll have fun."

"Buying an entire evergreen tree to prop up in the living room and decorate with creepy little ornaments, wow. How'd you guess that's always been the deepest desire of my heart?"

Roz put the truck in park and shut off the engine. "The sooner we find a tree, the sooner we can go to Gene and Sarah's and mess around decorating cookies. Then we can go home and mess around with each other."

"That's more like it. Now I remember why I married you," Greg said, and opened the door.

They wandered down the aisles of trees hand in hand, with her husband's usual acerbic comments on the quality of the offerings. Roz didn't really care about anything except the lean fingers that clasped hers, but she made an effort to focus long enough to choose a good-looking fir, nicely filled out and still healthy. As she paid for their selection she hope this would become a yearly ritual. The thought filled her with warmth.

"It's too big," Greg grumbled as the attendant bundled the tree. "It'll take up the whole living room."

"It's just right."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. When we're trying to watch tv through the branches and the cat's stalking us from his perch at the top, don't say I didn't warn you."

With their purchase loaded into the flatbed, they headed for the Goldman house. Roz turned up the radio when Bruce Springsteen began to play. She didn't quite dare to sing aloud with Greg there—although he didn't make fun of her, she was all too aware of her utter lack of talent—but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the music.

"'I feel real good tonight/and I got music on the radio/I feel just like I wanna kiss ya/underneath my mistletoe,'" she hummed under her breath. After a moment Greg put his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. He said nothing but she smiled anyway, and knew exactly what he'd told her without the need to say a word.

'_Give Me Love,' George Harrison_

'_Merry Christmas Baby,' Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band_


	6. Chapter 6

_December 23rd_

"You got the playlist?"

Gene glanced over at Greg. He tapped the right side of the keyboard where he'd taped the paper. "Yeah, I know _I_ have it. Do _you_?" Greg said with some impatience. Gene moved his guitar so Greg could see the abbreviated list fastened to the side. "Everyone else is cool." Gene gave him a thumbs up. "You must be paying cash for every word or something."

Gene opened his mouth and was forestalled from a reply by Singh, who had decided to test his drums one last time. Greg chuckled, annoyance replaced by amusement. Jay snorted and rolled his eyes. Chase gripped his violin and looked nervous. The younger man was a last minute addition. Gene had doubts about his chops, but figured it was a gesture on Greg's part with some obscure ulterior motive he'd never share. Well, it didn't matter; this was a village Christmas dance, not Carnegie Hall. He leaned forward and spoke into the microphone, and raised his voice slightly. even with the amplification, he needed the extra volume to be heard above the noise of the crowd in the fire house.

"Merry Christmas, everyone! Let's get started."

Above the applause he heard Greg count them off. They launched into 'Run Rudolph Run'. Jay hammered the bass line and Singh pounded the hell out of his skins; Chase added a decent harmony line, his stage fright nowhere in evidence. Within seconds the dance floor was jammed, the sound of laughter and voices as sweet as the melody.

They moved into 'Jingle Bell Rock' done Brian Setzer rockabilly style, and after that 'Little Saint Nick'. This year it had been decided Singh would deliver the tag line. He gave it every ounce of theater it deserved, to the delight of the crowd. They cheered him, and as usual it had to be played twice; still, when Greg started the bell intro for 'Please Come Home for Christmas', everyone settled down to the serious business of a slow dance. As Gene sang he saw Sarah emerge from the kitchen and look his way. He nodded at her; they'd have their own moment later tonight, when they were alone and the kid was asleep. She leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded, and smiled at him before she made her way to the side of the stage. That morning she'd told him what had troubled her. While it hurt to know she'd kept this inside her for so long, he was glad she'd finally unburdened herself to him. They'd talked for a long time, not just as husband and wife but as best friends. It was the finest Christmas present he'd had in many a year.

They moved into 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree' and Sarah hammed it up in her best Brenda Lee imitation. At the end she produced a sprig of mistletoe and kissed Gene while the crowd yelled and clapped their approval.

Next up was 'It's Christmas Once Again', a Frankie Lymon classic with Chelsea Butterman on the vocal. They'd adjusted the key for her higher range, with excellent results. Her sweet voice soared effortlessly, pure and clear, phrasing and expression perfect; Gene saw Greg watch her, quiet pride evident in his expression. He was responsible for her teacher and the lessons required to develop her talent, and made sure she had opportunities to sing in public that were appropriate for her age. The girl learned quickly; her stage presence was flawless, and her enthusiasm added color and depth to her performance. Her rendition brought down the house, of course. She took three bows and then retreated to her mother's arms, her cheeks flushed with delight.

"We'll be back in twenty," Greg said when the song ended, and the band took their break. Gene went to the table where Roz and Lou sat with Jason, the Buttermans, Mandy and her mother.

"You guys sound great," Jason said. His dark eyes shone with enjoyment. A couple of weeks ago he'd told Gene of his desire for a saxophone. Last night Gene had placed a box under the tree with a new tenor sax in it. If the kid proved diligent in his practicing, he would probably end up on stage with them in a couple of years. The thought felt good; it felt right. Gene sat next to his boy and stretched his legs.

"Thanks." He looked up as Sarah joined them. She sat on his lap and leaned in for a kiss.

"Jeez, get a room," Greg said. He grabbed the chair next to Roz, stole a cookie from her plate and chewed noisily.

"Such a romantic," Roz said with a laugh in her voice. Lou shook his head, but he looked amused all the same.

"Jason won't dance," Mandy said. Jason rolled his eyes.

"Dancing's stupid," he muttered, and hunched his shoulders.

"Oh, I don't know," Sarah said. "It depends on who you end up with."

"People don't dance together anymore," Jason said.

"I beg to differ," Gene said mildly. "I dance with my wife whenever possible." He took Sarah's hand in his. "Wait till you try it, you might just like it."

Jason looked away. Sarah gave Gene's hand a light squeeze. _Don't push,_ that silent signal said. He squeezed back and said "I hear cookies and punch are available."

Sarah started to rise, but Roz beat her to it. "I need a refill anyway," she said, and took her plate from Greg's hand. She grinned at Gene and went off to the table where the platters of goodies were laid out. Greg watched her go, a gleam in his vivid blue eyes.

"Get a room," Gene said with a grin.

They were about to take the stage when Greg's phone rang. He answered, his lean face creased into a frown. "On my way," he said finally, and ended the call. "Gotta go," he said. "Tell your wife she's needed onstage. Don't know when I'll be back." He looked at Chase. "When this is over, grab Singh and meet me in the conference room. Bring cookies." With that he headed off to get his coat, Roz at his side.

Sarah took over keyboard duties with the ease of long experience. She adjusted the bench for her smaller stature and made a few practice runs, her slender fingers graceful.

"Ready?" Gene asked. She nodded and began the intro to 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas'. She swung it a little and Gene followed her lead, as did Singh and Jay. Chase eased in with a harmony line to her vocal. She smiled at him and gave him room to show off a bit. By the end of the song he stood next to her, completely at ease, and his skill was apparent. When they finished the applause was deafening.

"Doctor Robert Chase, y'all," Sarah said with a grin, and laughed when Chase blushed and gave a little wave.

'Jingle Bells' was up next, done a la Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters, with Sarah, Chelsea and Kris on the vocals with Gene. They'd rehearsed this for a couple of weeks and had a great time with it. Chelsea in particular had taken to the style; the kid was a natural, she loved to sing and learn new techniques. She would go far one day.

They followed up this confection with 'Winter Wonderland', done in the same close-harmony style. Gene saw Lou dance with Roz amid the crowd on the floor, and say something to make her laugh.

'Here Comes Santa Claus' was the signal for Pastor Ron, this year's designated Saint Nick, to come in with several elves who lugged bagfuls of presents. He endured the process with good grace and even managed a few 'ho ho ho's' now and then, mobbed as he was by children and grownups alike.

The final secular song was one Greg had added at the last minute. Gene took over the lead vocal for 'Merry Christmas, Baby' and was impressed by the way Chase claimed the Clarence Clemons solos for his own, a nice surprise.

They concluded the dance with the traditional carol sing-along. Gene had suggested 'Silent Night' be placed at the end, with Chase on the first verse as a solo. He did it full justice, and when it was done he said softly to Gene "Have to go", and nodded at Singh. They crept out as Sarah sang the second verse in Irish. Her clear, strong voice shaped the words with respect and love. You could have heard a pin drop in the hall.

It didn't take long to pack up their gear and put everything in order. Sarah made a quick run to remind various people of their standing invitation to Christmas dinner; when she got to Roz she gave her friend a hug and a kiss on the cheek and said something to her to make them both laugh.

"What did you say?" Gene asked a bit later, as they drove across the village, Jason sitting between Sarah and the passenger side door.

"To Roz? That if she and Greg arrived late no one would get upset." Sarah grinned at him and he chuckled.

"What if _we_ want to arrive late?"

"That could be arranged." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Merry Christmas, baby," she whispered.

"_Ick_," Jason said, and Gene laughed.

When they reached the house it was to find an unfamiliar SUV pulled up in one of the extra parking spots on the side yard.

"Who's here?" Jason said, as he craned his neck to get a better look.

"Who did you invite?" Sarah asked, her surprise evident.

"Guess you'll both find out," Gene said mildly.

They didn't have long to wait. As they exited the truck the front door opened and a tall figure stepped out. Sarah drew in a breath.

"_Prof_," she said. Her voice shook a bit. She hurried forward as Gordon Wyatt opened his arms wide. She went into them and hid her face in his chest, and hugged him tightly.

"Who's this guy?" Jason asked, his suspicion plain.

"Someone your mom needs right now," Gene said. "We'll make introductions a bit later." He nodded at Gordon, who nodded back before he led Sarah into the house. "C'mon, let's get the instruments inside and then off to bed. School tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah, but then two weeks off." Jason took the guitar from the nest of moving pads and amps in the flatbed. "Will you pick me up tomorrow? I . . . I kinda need to do some shopping."

Gene chuckled. "Me too. We'll go over to WalMart and have dinner out too. I'm gonna need your help to find something really great for Sarah."

"Yeah, cool." Jason hesitated, then came over and gave Gene an awkward, brief but obviously heartfelt hug. "Thanks . . . thanks, Dad."

Gene closed his eyes for a moment. "You're welcome, son," he said, glad his voice was steady, because the rest of him wasn't. "C'mon, let's go inside."

He'd taken the last of the amps inside when a snowball smacked into his back. He spun around to find Jason with another one in hand, a huge grin on his face. A laugh welled up and made its way out of Gene before he could stop it. "You_ cheater!_" he yelled, and bent down to scoop up some snow. He enjoyed the delight deep inside at this most commonplace of wintertime events, remembered countless battles with his brothers, the laughter and fun they'd had, and knew he and Jason would have a good time as they created the same memories for themselves. He launched his snowball; Jason ducked and laughed, and the fight was on.

'_Run Rudolph Run', Bryan Adams_

'_Jingle Bell Rock', Brian Setzer _

'_Little Saint Nick,' the Beach Boys_

'_Please Come Home for Christmas', the Eagles_

'_Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree', Brenda Lee_

'_It's Christmas Once Again', Frankie Lymon_

'_Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas', Katie Melua_

'_Jingle Bells', Bing Crosby & the Andrews Sisters_

'_Winter Wonderland', the Andrews Sisters_

'_Here Comes Santa Claus', Gene Autry_

'_Merry Christmas, Baby', Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band_

_various carols, including 'Silent Night' (for the Irish version, look for Enya's recording)_


	7. Chapter 7

_Christmas Eve_

Sarah entered the chapel and paused. The place was packed and more people had come in behind her. She looked around for a place to sit and saw an empty spot off to the side near the back. As she started to move toward it, someone came up beside her.

"I'd like to have you sit with me if that's okay," Anne Faust said softly. "Mandy's in the service, it would be nice to have your company."

After a moment Sarah nodded and followed Anne, took a seat next to her in the pew reserved for the participants families. As she removed her coat, her anxiety returned. Memories of long vigils in the cold, forced to endure visions of wrath and retribution at the return of the Christ, pressed her hard. _Come on, Corbett,_ she said to herself. _You can do this. That's not what all Christians believe._

_("You know the technique, I know you do because I taught you myself and you were my best student. When you remember, set the memories aside and choose to make new ones," Prof said quietly. "To a large extent it's a matter of what you believe you gain from staying stuck in the past. I think you've allowed those old memories to define who you are for too long. Time to discover another identity, one you choose for yourself.")_

_I'll do my best,_ she thought, and turned her head to the aisle as the lights dimmed. In the soft gloom Chelsea Butterman's high, clear voice began the hymn 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel'. She entered the chapel with a light in her hands, her heart-shaped face illuminated by the soft glow. Behind her came a dozen girls, all with lights, as they the harmony; Mandy was near the end. Her warm, soft alto touched them as she passed. They progressed up the aisle to the front of the chapel, where they continued to sing until everyone had taken their places.

The service was a simple one: readings from scripture to recount the story of the Nativity, accompanied by carols to illustrate each passage. Sarah found herself caught up despite her best intentions. She was surprised to discover . . . not belief, but respect and a willingness to honor this more compassionate vision of Christ's life and works. Gradually her anxiety receded. She relaxed, became aware of the others around her, the warmth and the goodwill, the way they all made a congregation.

At the end they sang 'Silent Night'. Sarah felt tears gather in her eyes, but didn't bother to wipe them away. It was something of a surprise then when Anne put a tissue in her hand. "Me too," she whispered, and gave Sarah a smile. "Every time."

After the service Pastor Ron and Dorothy stood at the inner door to thank everyone for their attendance and chat just a bit. When Sarah came to them she was enveloped in the warmth of their delighted surprise.

"We're _so_ glad you came," Dorothy said. She took Sarah's hand in hers for a moment. "You're always welcome here, always. You do so much good in the village, you're a part of our community and we're glad to have you with us."

As she walked out into the cold night, Sarah glanced at the stars overhead and then at the twinkling lights on the houses along the street. Anne put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a little hug. "Mandy and I are looking forward to dinner tomorrow," she said. "Thank you for taking such wonderful care of my girl for me. It's a huge load off my mind to know she can stay with you when I'm working long hours."

"It's my pleasure," Sarah said. "Mandy's a delightful girl. Gene and I can't wait to see you both at our table."

"I'll bring my mother's recipe for potato dressing," Anne said with a smile as Mandy joined them. A few flakes began to drift down. "We'd better get going before the snow starts up. See you in the morning. Merry Christmas."

Sarah drove home slowly. She didn't the snowfall for once; she had a lot to think about, much to sort out. As she turned into the lane she saw the lights of her home shine out over the yard, just as they always did. A curious sense of relief descended; nothing had changed here, but then the only change had occurred within her own mind, not her environment.

Gene and Jason were still up. They watched a movie together with Gordon, who was crashed out on the couch behind them. It was some action epic complete with explosions, blood and flying body parts. Sarah perched next to Gordon as he took her hand.

"And?" he said with a smile.

"It was lovely," she said. "It was good. I'm glad I went."

"Excellent. You've earned a mug of hot chocolate. Avail yourself, it's in the kitchen." As she stood he said softly, 'Well done, Sarah Jane."

[H]

"Where the HELL is my bathrobe?"

Roz looked up from her book. She'd known this would happen. Her husband stood in the doorway, the very essence of outraged sensibility. He glared at her, and one hand gripped the doorjamb hard enough to make his knuckles white.

"It's safe," she said in perfect truth.

"Where IS it?!"

She set the book aside and looked at him. "Do you trust me?"

He huffed and folded his arms. "I don't want a new robe, dammit! It's my choice!"

"Do. You. Trust. Me." She dared to press the issue.

"That has nothing—"

"It has everything to do with this," she said quietly. "And you know it, _amante_."

He fell silent, but his glare intensified. Roz didn't look away. After a few moments of tense silence he came forward, grabbed the extra blanket off the foot of the bed, leaned in and snatched a pillow, then stormed out of the room, to pull the door shut behind him with a bang. Roz relaxed, surprised to find she'd held her breath. "That answers _that _question," she said aloud, but she knew it wasn't true. He trusted her, but this had also been a battle of wills from the start, she knew that now. He would always attempt to win any such contest between them. _But that doesn't mean I have to just give up_, she thought. With a quiet sigh she picked up her book. _Oh well. Good thing I hid the presents. _

Fifteen minutes later the door cracked open. "You traitorous little wench."

"Love you too," she said demurely, and turned a page.

"So let's . . . let's open some of 'em tonight." He was the pure voice of reason now, soft and persuasive. "I do one, you do one. That's fair, isn't it?"

"If you don't behave yourself you'll have to wait for_ La Befana_ to give you your presents," she said, and hid a smile. "And she doesn't show up until January fifth. You'd better hope you don't see her or she'll thump you with her broomstick."

"Hah, very clever, attempting to terrorize your significant other." There was a brief silence. "You'd leave me out here on a cold, windy, snowy night with no way to keep warm?"

"You're the one who threw a hissy fit," she pointed out. "You're the one who decided to sleep on the couch. And you took a blanket with you. Plus you have the cat."

"Damn." The door wavered slightly. "Can I look under the bed?"

"Be my guest," she said.

"So they're not there."

"Gregory," she said. "If you stay up all night taking the house apart, you're putting it back together before you get anything tomorrow. That's fine by me. I'll watch the _Doctor Who_ marathon while you clean up."

"_Damn._" He sighed. "They're not here, are they?"

"Come to bed," she said. "It's late and you might get called out in the night. You need some sleep."

The door opened a few inches. "I hate it when you're reasonable and right at the same time."

Roz patted the empty side of the bed. "Nice and warm," she said in an inviting tone.

"Shut up and turn out the light. I don't want you to see my painful disappointment at your betrayal in case it induces you to hide everything for a week."

She rolled her eyes, slapped the book on the nightstand and clicked off the light. The door pushed open and Greg entered, pillow under one arm, blanket over the other. In the semi-gloom he looked both annoyed and defiant; his eyes glittered as he watched her while he moved to the bed. He stood there and stared down at her. Then he dumped the blanket on the floor, tossed the pillow toward the head, brought his legs up and yanked the covers over himself, his back to her.

"Goodnight, _amante_. Love you," Roz said. There was no answer, only an angry movement of his shoulders. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him; it would only make matters worse. With a silent sigh she closed her eyes and settled in, and hoped she'd be able to find some sleep herself. Still, she smiled as she drifted off. She had a feeling things would be all right.


	8. Chapter 8

Christmas Day

Greg wakes to the fragrance of freshly-brewed coffee and a quiet presence by the bed. He manages to open one eye. "Mmmpf," he mumbles.

"Good morning," Roz says softly. Her hand comes to rest on his for a moment. Greg opens the other eye.

"What?" he growls. For answer she reaches down and picks up something, places it on the bed next to him.

"_Buon Natale,_" she says with a smile. In her simple flannel nightgown, her dark hair ruffled and green eyes sparkling, she looks good enough to eat. Greg slowly leans up on his elbow and glances at the package, wrapped in bright paper.

"What's this?" he asks, though he knows perfectly well what it is.

"Why don't you open it and find out?" She gives his hand a caress and gets up. "We'll have coffee and breakfast when you're ready." With that she leaves him, to close the door quietly behind her.

It takes him a few minutes to find the courage to open his gift. He knows it's stupid, but he dreads what he'll find. Still, he finally grabs the package, rips the paper and stares down at the robe, folded neatly with a little card on top. He picks it up and reads it. _with love from Roz and Sarah _is all it says. Both of them have signed it. After a moment he sets it aside and lifts the robe, shakes out the folds.

The main body of the garment is new flannel, the pattern a plaid composed of soft greys on a cream background, with a dark grey stripe. But the deep hem and front placket, the collar, the sleeve cuffs and elbow patches and pockets, are made from his old robe. The new flannel matches the old one's dominant colors; it should look weird, but it doesn't. It all goes together beautifully.

Of course he has to try it on. It fits him well—it's a little longer than the original robe, but only by a couple of inches. There's a belt too, made from both the old and new flannel. He ties it, looks down at himself. Then he finds his slippers and heads for the kitchen, to stop by the tree and take a small velvet box out of its hiding place in the higher branches. He tucks it in his pocket.

Roz has just set out ingredients for breakfast when he enters. She turns to him and pauses, but she says only "There's coffee ready if you want some. I thought we could do pancakes, if you like."

"Come here," he says quietly. She puts down the buttermilk and approaches him. When she's a foot or so away he reaches out and brings her to him, to enfold her in his arms.

"You and that red-headed Okie stepchild are a menace to society," he says, and kisses her. She tastes of coffee, sweet and strong. Her arms slip around him to hold him close.

"Thanks," she says when the kiss ends. "So is that a present in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

He can't help but chuckle. Of course she won't hold his behavior against him; she understands him better than anyone else besides Sarah. "Why don't you find out?" he says. She slips her small hand into his pocket and gives his thigh a caress before she removes the velvet box. He didn't bother to wrap it, so she's able to open the lid right away. Her eyes widen as she lifts a necklace out of its satin bed. It's a gold chain, strong enough to withstand the rigors of everyday wear. A little crystal spider in a golden web dangles from the chain. Roz touches the spider with a slender finger, then gives the necklace to him and turns around. He puts it on her, strokes her nape with his thumbs. When she faces him again her eyes are shimmer with tears, but she smiles up at him. Her hands touch his face, hold him as if he's something precious. When she kisses him she whispers his name against his lips afterward, soft and sweet. Her love warms him like the robe she helped create.

Breakfast is an exercise in silliness. Roz makes pancakes shaped like turtles and bunnies, along with scrambled eggs and sausage.

"I'm not five years old," he gripes, as he makes a tall stack on his plate and slathering them with maple syrup.

"Could have fooled me," Roz says, and ducks when he flips a pat of butter at her.

They end up on the couch to watch the _Doctor Who_ Christmas specials marathon and open presents while Hellboy nibbles bits of sausage and chases after crumpled balls of shiny, sparkly giftwrap with little chirps of delight. They haven't given each other much, just two or three gifts besides the ones they've already opened, but it's actually pleasant to have Roz with him. He knows she won't use this as an opportunity to cause humiliation or pain—quite the opposite, in fact. Her delight in the small tokens he's given her is all out of proportion to their real worth, but he enjoys her reactions anyway. Her gifts to him are thoughtful and welcome: a messenger bag done in dark blue canvas and tan leather, a new coffee mug with a lid and a keep-warm pad, a little red Dalek with a remote control—something he'd joked about several weeks ago as a means to fend off creditors if the clinic goes bankrupt. His gifts to her are pure impulse purchases: a mechanical pencil, and a calculator with a small notebook she can keep in her jumpsuit pocket for measurements; a box of her favorite chocolates, a pashmina scarf in a swirl of greens and blues.

"How's your patient?" Roz asks afterward. She's snuggled up against him, her head on his shoulder; her quiet happiness is palpable.

"Holding his own," he says. They're no closer to a diagnosis, but now they've got an entirely new set of symptoms to work with. Chandler's volunteered to spend the day at the clinic with Patterson. Greg is fairly sure she does it because she doesn't want to face Christmas at the Goldman home, but since it's her choice he doesn't care.

"Good. I thought we'd head over to Gene and Sarah's in an hour or so." Roz stretches a bit.

"Oh you did, did you?" He slides his hand along her hip and cups her cheek. She puts her hand over his.

"Well . . . two hours then," she says, and unties his robe with a chuckle as she reveals the bulge in his sleep pants.

"Optimist," he says, and gets to his feet. He brings her with him. "We'd better get started then."

"I think you already have," she laughs, and leads the way to their room with an enthusiasm that makes his lips twitch.

Hellboy observes them as they pass by. He swats at a paper ball, yawns and walks off to curl up on the couch among the cushions, nose to tail, as his golden eyes watch the lights wink and flash on the tall tree.


	9. Chapter 9

_Christmas Day_

Sarah poured boiling water over the teabag in her mug and set the kettle aside. She leaned against the counter and passed a hand through her curls, then reviewed the to-do list in her head. It wasn't an extensive one; she was up early mainly from force of habit. Most of the work was already done. Prof had insisted he'd cook for the main meal, so all she really needed to do was bake the cinnamon rolls and fry up some bacon and venison sausage, and that could wait for another hour or so. She anticipated Jason would be up soon, eager to open presents; she looked forward to that too.

"Any chance of some coffee?" Joy Chandler stood in the doorway. She was fully dressed, already in her coat and scarf, her briefcase in hand. Sarah straightened.

"I'll start a pot," she said. "Give me five minutes." As she took the carafe to the sink she said "Can I make you some toast to take with you?"

Chandler shook her head. "I'll eat later." She didn't come into the kitchen, just stood there. As Sarah put grounds in the filter and started the pot she could feel the other woman watch her. It wasn't exactly a hostile observance; Sarah felt more like some exotic species of bug, examined from every angle by a cool and impersonal intellect.

"How's your patient doing?" she asked, just to see what sort of answer she'd receive.

"Holding his own." The finality in Chandler's voice made it clear that was all Sarah would get. She decided to push just a little.

"You've been working a lot of hours." She made it a neutral statement.

"No more than anyone else." There was a hint of defensiveness now, Sarah noted with interest.

"But you volunteered to go in today. That's very kind of you. Most people wouldn't want to work on Christmas," she said.

"I don't mind," Chandler said flatly. The bristles were out full force. "Can you fill my travel mug? I need to use the bathroom."

"Of course," Sarah said, and knew she shouldn't probe, but Chandler was simply too intriguing to pass up.

"Naughty naughty," Prof said softly from the dining room entry. Sarah jumped and turned to face him, felt her cheeks grow warm.

"You're up early," she said.

"I slept like a rock in that lovely comfortable bed you've so kindly given me, so of course I jolted awake at this uncouth hour. Don't change the subject," he said. "You want to be careful with that one, my dear. She won't stand much prodding."

Sarah plucked the teabag out of her cup and put it in the compost can, then took Chandler's mug from the dish rack and rinsed it. She went to the coffeemaker and waited, and didn't look at Prof. He chuckled softly but said nothing more. She'd just topped off the mug when Chandler came in. Without a word she took the coffee from Sarah, put the lid on the mug, and left, to close the front door behind her with quiet deliberation.

"Thoughtful of her not to give in to her tetchiness and wake the entire house. How's she getting to work?" Gordon asked.

"She's got an arrangement with Chase to borrow his BMW or ride with him till she can find something to drive." Sarah stirred some sugar into her tea, poured a cup of coffee and took both with her into the dining room. She offered the coffee to Prof.

"Ah, you're an angel, an absolute angel." Gordon held the cup in both hands. "The nectar of life."

"If you say so," Sarah said. "Ironic, me drinking tea, you drinking coffee."

"Hah. No resorting to stereotypes, thank you all the same." Gordon sipped his coffee. "Perfection. Now then, tell me why you decided to test Doctor Chandler a bit."

Sarah didn't answer right away. "Just trying to figure her out," she said finally. "She's closed off and defensive, and it's obvious she doesn't want to be here for the festivities."

"That's all very well, but why do you want to figure her out, as you say?" Gordon sat back a bit. "What's your _modus operandi_? Certainly not for your own amusement, I know you would never indulge in such a thing."

"She needs help, but she's not about to ask for it. Now right now, anyway," Sarah said. "After she's worked with Greg for a while though, she will. He'll break her down. So I'm . . . stocking up, so to speak."

"Getting ahead of the curve," Gordon said. He nodded. "Very astute." He set his cup down. "What's your assessment, then? Care to share?"

"Mmm . . . not just yet," Sarah said. "I'm still observing."

Gordon nodded. "Quite fair and well said. May I offer you my insights?"

"Of course. You know I was going to ask anyway," Sarah said with a smile.

"Ah, you flatter me." He fell silent for a moment. "As I said earlier, you want to be careful with the rather inaptly named Joy, Sarah Jane. She's struggling to find her place here, and not finding much success at the moment. And I believe she isn't the kind to take that kind of defeat well."

Sarah nodded. "'In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan/earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone,'" she sang softly, and Gordon nodded.

"Precisely. You understand me, as I knew you would." He took her hand in his. "Remember that earth and water soften when they are warmed, but there again, I needn't point out the obvious."

Sarah squeezed his hand gently. "If she needs help I'll be glad to offer it."

"Excellent. Now, what's the prospect for brekkies? I hear tell you're planning on serving up those incredibly decadent cinnamon rolls of yours and you _still_ haven't given me your recipe for them." Gordon looked down his nose at her. "Trying to make me beg, are you? Scheming minx."

"I'll write it down while you put the rolls in the oven." Sarah got to her feet. "Our young man will be up shortly, just so you know."

"Your young man—how delightful that sounds!" Gordon beamed at her. "I'm so happy for you, Sarah. You'll make an excellent mother, and Gene will no doubt be a fine father as well."

"Thanks," Sarah said, and blushed.

[H]

Greg ushers Roz into the house and bangs the door shut. The now-familiar ambience of baked cinnamon rolls, coffee, the fresh tang of pine and wood smoke, the sound of talk and laughter and live music, wash over him. He closes his eyes for a moment and soaks it up. This is his first home, warm and sweet. He takes off his coat and tosses it over the banister, and pays no mind to Roz's head shake as she takes it with hers to hang up in the closet.

The living room is full of discarded wrap and bows. Jason cradles a tenor sax like it's made out of gold. Gene has a reed in hand to show him how it works; Greg foresees, or rather forehears, a lot of honks and squeaks and wavering notes in the Goldmans near future—but if the kid turns out to be good, it'll be worth it.

"Hey," Sarah says as she comes forward to greet them. She gives him a gentle hug, then does the same with Roz. "Merry Christmas, you two."

"Merry Christmas," Roz says. "We brought presents."

"Excellent, thank you," Sarah says. She waits until Roz goes to pick up the sack by the door before she says softly, "If you want to open yours later or just take them home, that's fine." Greg knows she'll be as good as her word. He nods and says nothing more. Gene passes by and pauses.

"Hey," he says with a grin. "Guess what Santy Claus brung me."

"Do tell," Greg says, intrigued by the excitement in the other man's voice.

"A Gretsch." Gene beams, his pirate's features creased in an expression of pure happiness. "A damn _Gretsch_, of all things. A 5120. Pristine condition."

"Sah-weet," Greg says, impressed. "Got it plugged in? Let's try it out."

"Not here," Sarah says from the doorway. "You guys want to have a non-acoustic hootenanny, you do it out in the barn." Her stern tone is belied by the twinkle in her eyes.

"Later," Gene says. "We can practice. I snagged the Peavey amp, it'll blow the walls down."

"Cool." It's something else to look forward to, besides the inevitable pile of gifts he'll get.

Eventually he ends up in his easy chair with a plate of cinnamon rolls and a cup of excellent coffee, as he watches the controlled chaos around him. Chase sits with Gordon Gordon. They talk back and forth; it looks serious, but not intense. Wyatt probably offers counsel to the younger man, and Chase listens to him. That's the biggest change Greg's found in him since his return to the team; he's moved past his tendency to hear what he wants to hear. It's made him a better doctor, at least.

Gene is back with Jason, to answer questions about the sax. Greg can't help but smile a little; he has the distinct feeling the kid will sleep with that thing for the next month at least. He has so much to learn-how to deal with reeds, how to keep the instrument clean, the right way to hold it, how to shape his mouth and lips to get a good clean sound . . . and every new skill gained will bring with it an ineffable satisfaction nothing else in the world can give him.

Roz, Sarah and McMurphy are out of sight, but he can hear them in the kitchen with Faust and her girl. The radio's tuned to light holiday music; now and then someone sings along. Later Sarah and Gene will play for them during the buffet dinner. Greg won't admit it, but he looks forward to that. He's heard them practice together, and they sound fantastic.

As he sits there amid the swirl of talk and laughter and activity, a sudden fear disrupts his thoughts. What if all this is taken away? What if something happens and once more he finds himself on the outside, pushed aside, ignored? He swallows as something like terror grips him. He's gone soft and allowed these people to mean too much to him now, he can't just walk if they decide to exclude him from the group . . . He knows this is an old and pointless fear, but he can't seem to push it from him.

He's distracted when his phone rings—not the ringtone he expects from the clinic, but 'Dancing Queen'. He hesitates. The last thing he wants right now is Wilson to harsh his mellow, but he doesn't want a panic attack either. With a sigh he answers finally. "Latkes Are Us. You grate 'em, we plate 'em."

"Haha," Wilson says. "No applesauce?"

"A deficiency remedied by a slice or two of pork tenderloin." Greg sits back and feels his fear take a back seat for the moment.

"Right. How's your Christmas?" Wilson sounds a little wistful but okay.

"Peachy. I won't ask about yours since you don't believe in either of the two fairy tales this day's founded on."

"Hey, I got presents," Wilson protests. "Nice ones."

"So Santa made a mistake," Greg says, all bright cheerfulness.

"I won't say anything if you won't. So-how are you? How's—how's everyone there?" Wilson's treads carefully now.

"Fine." He won't elaborate.

"Okay—that's good. Get a lot of snow? We had a big storm dump four inches here yesterday."

Greg snorts in amusement. "Chump change."

"Yeah, I guess for you guys it would be." There's a slight pause. "I didn't get you anything this year. It . . . it just—I couldn't think of anything you need."

With that comment everything settles into perspective. Greg feels his fear dissipate as if it never existed. "I'm good. You?"

"M-me? You mean—um, I'm . . . I'm fine. Still working with Darryl twice a week, but I'm back at work part-time. Cuddy ended up assigning me an assistant."

"Huh," Greg says. "Have you done her yet?"

"Since she's a he, no," Wilson says dryly. "It's so damn weird to have the middle of the week off. That putz Greiner in Peds keeps bugging me to go golfing with him. I started a weekly poker game instead." Wilson chuckles softly. "You'd be proud at all the money I'm raking in without you around to hog the winnings. How's the clinic going?"

"First case taken and solved," Greg says, not without some pride. "They're stacked up waiting to get in."

"Wow, you're a real humanitarian," Wilson says, and Greg's lips quirk up in a smile. "The new team's working out?"

"Yeah." He feels an odd tug in the region of his heart and ignores it. "Almost like old times with Chase here."

"Yeah . . . yeah, I'm sure that's true." Wilson is silent for a few moments. "Well, that's it. Just wanted to wish you merry merry and all that."

"Okay," Greg says, and then the words come out of his mouth before he can stop them. "You too."

"Uh . . . well, thanks," Wilson says. He sounds surprised but pleased. "Thanks, House."

"Yeah, yeah. No big deal. Don't behave yourself too much. Keep an eye on your tells when you're playing five-card stud. Get new players in every few weeks so they don't start ripping you off. Gotta go." He ends the call before Wilson can say anything else. For a few moments he sits there, goes over the conversation in his mind. Awkward, tentative, yes—but Wilson sounded good. The desperate edge is gone, that undertone of envy and disbelief nowhere in evidence. Maybe James has found his way at long last.

"Buffet's ready," Sarah says from the doorway. She has her mandolin in hand. "This year Gene and I will provide background music for the next hour or two, we hope you enjoy it."

The next thing he knows he's got a plate of food and he sits in a semi-circle of people, all more or less known quantities to him by now, who eat and talk and listen to the music. The conversational tide turns to other things—books, politics, current events, all discussed with quick wit, sharp ripostes and laughter that somehow is never cruel or mean-spirited, though it's often on the mildly ribald side even with the kids there. Jason sits next to him, he takes it all in while he devours goodies like a starving wolf pup. When Roz's hand slides across Greg's lower back and comes to rest on his hip he savors the closeness, the gentle assault on his senses from every direction. They fill him up, but not with confusion. This is . . . it's . . . fulfillment. It's what he's wanted all his life and has never been able to find, never even really knew he wanted or needed until now.

Afterward, he, Gene, Chase, Gordon and the kid head off to the barn. Gene holds a hard shell case in his arms like it's a newborn. When they get to their destination, the Gretsch is revealed with tender care. It's a beauty. As Jason gets the forced-air heater going, Gene plugs in the guitar, sets it up and begins to play, and it's a sound to melt your heart with the gorgeous way it rings, mellow and fine.

"Oh my," the Brit says in quiet admiration. "Oh, that is a _fine_ ax, Eugene. May I?"

They all get a chance to play with the new toy. Even Jason is allowed to try a few notes and shown how to use the tremolo. His eyes are wide with delight. Then Gene takes it back and picks a chord or two, to move effortlessly into 'Sleepwalk', dreamy and bittersweet as a parting kiss between new lovers.

"_Sick,_" Jason whispers as the last note shimmers into nothingness.

"That has to go on the list for New Year's," Greg says. Gene grins at him.

"You got it."

When the night ends at last and Greg and Roz go out to the truck, it's to find two stockings propped up on either side of a grocery bag full of presents. Each has a card with their names.

"You hold 'em, I'll drive," Greg says, and anticipates the swag to come.

"So did you have a good time?" Roz asks as they head down the lane.

"Not bad," he says. "Not bad at all."

'_Sleepwalk,' the Ventures _


	10. Chapter 10

_December 31st_

_New Year's Eve_

It's been a long evening and it isn't even midnight yet. Greg sits back and sips his latte as he listens to Cousin Joe with Gatemouth Brown on lead guitar. He's waiting for a biopsy result to come in; though he's fairly certain of what it will tell him, he needs proof in hand before he delivers the bad news to Patterson. Or rather to his wife, since Patterson himself is incapable of comprehension at this point.

His thoughts drift to the party at the fire hall. He could be there now, at his keyboard to play a slow song with the band and watch his wife dance with her grandfather. He'd opted to come here because while he can dump mundane chores off on his minions, the actual diagnosis is his responsibility. He used to foist it off on team members when he worked at PPTH, true enough, but things are different now. This is his practice, he's in charge.

The soft beep of an incoming message on his desktop distracts him from his thoughts. He pops the display up and there's Roz. She's at the dance, he can hear the music and see people behind her. He glances at the little glass spider perched on the corner of the blotter—her birthday present to him—and back at the screen. He still has the calcite worry stone she gave him last year at Christmas; it sits in his pocket, a small, pleasant reminder of her that he carries with him everywhere.

"Hey _amante_," she says, her dark voice a caress. "Just checking in, how's it going?"

"Results should be in shortly," he says, as he enjoys the sight and sound of her. "I take it the shindig progresses."

"Not the same without you," she says. "Everyone wishes you a happy birthday and thanks for the cake. I saved a big corner with lots of buttercream for you. We'll have it for breakfast."

"Pffft," he says, but still pleased. "Cake Temptress, trying to have your evil way with me."

"Damn straight," Roz says, and waggles her eyebrows at him. Her green eyes sparkle. "Let's go watch the band for a few minutes."

She takes the webcam to the side of the makeshift stage, and as she approaches the band starts to play. He recognizes the song and makes a face.

"Hah, very funny," he growls, but a laugh gets the better of him because they're playing the Beach Boys 'The Ballad of Ole Betsy' and every one of those jerks grins at him. They deliver the last lines, 'she may be rusted iron/but to me she's solid gold/and I just can't hold the tears back/'cause Betsy's growing oooooooold . . .' in perfect, lugubrious harmony; he can hear Sarah's clear alto add a layer of sweetness, damn her treacherous hide. She waves at him from behind the keyboard where she's taken his place. Looks like she's perfectly at home.

When the band is done they yell 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY GREG!' and the hall erupts in cheers and hoots.

"Happy birthday," Roz says with a laugh. Greg groans and rolls his eyes.

"Yokel humor, hardy har har," he snarks.

"Wish you were here." She blows him a kiss. "I'll see you at home, okay?"

"Yeah. Come naked, bring cake," he says, and enjoys her soft laugh.

"One now, one later," she says.

"Okay, I choose naked."

"Hah, only if you want a popsicle on your doorstep."

"But then I'd get to thaw you out," he says, and looks up as Anne comes into the office. "Gotta go."

"Okay. Love you," Roz says, and she's gone.

"Results at last," Anne says. She looks tired, a little sad as she hands him the sheet. Greg looks it over and nods his head; he's got the evidence he needs.

"Go home," he says. "Make sure you note your hours after five as overtime."

Anne gives him a slight smile. "Thanks, but I'll stay till Colleen comes in at six."

"Hey, no skin off my nose. Making the big bucks will just bump you into a higher tax bracket." He stretches a little and gets to his feet, gives his right leg a chance to loosen up. The new thigh muscle's cramping more than usual—a good sign from what the trial doctors tell him, but bothersome all the same. Still, it beats the alternative.

"Good night, Doctor House. Happy New Year." Her smile widens. "Happy birthday as well."

"Not you too," he groans, and she chuckles before she heads into the dim interior of the main room.

Patterson's wife is still up, as he knew she would be. When he comes into the room she closes her eyes for a moment, then faces him. Greg stops at the foot of the bed. "Ragged red fiber," he says. "I know that means nothing to you, but it tells me what I need to know." He takes a breath. "Your husband has MELAS syndrome. It's a rare form of dementia. It took us a while to figure out because he's an atypical case. Most patients present with stroke-like symptoms much earlier, often in childhood or youth. He's a late bloomer."

"Is—is there any treatment for it?" she asks after a brief silence. Greg shakes his head.

"The best we can do is manage symptoms as they show up. Some patients have responded to vitamins and anti-oxidants, but not on enough of a consistent basis to make them a serious option."

She nods and draws a deep breath, lets it out. She looks better now than she did when he came in; Greg understands why. To know is better than to not know, even if the diagnosis is bad. "Okay. At least I know where we stand." She lifts her gaze to his, a brief acknowledgment. "I can't say this is anything I ever wanted to hear, but thank you for finally finding the truth, Doctor House. It means more than I can say."

He's just told her her husband is toast and she's thanked him. Wilson would be in complete shock at this point, and out ten bucks as well. "My secretary can get you the names of some competent specialists. Don't settle for some moron who'll try to convince you seaweed tea is the magic cure."

She actually smiles just a little at that and takes her husband's hand in hers. "I won't."

He leaves her there to sit beside the wreck of her marriage, her dreams and hopes. The song he'd listened to earlier echoes in his head.

_life is a one-way ticket, baby_

_and they ain't no second time around _

_so you better get all you can out of life_

_before you six feet underground_

He thinks about that while he navigates the snowy roads. The luck of the draw has changed two peoples lives in ways they'd never imagined. That same random quality has touched him as well. Where would he be if he hadn't encountered Sarah at Mayfield? Percentages indicate he'd be deader than a mackerel, or well on his way with liver failure or an overdose, most likely. Lesser numbers tend toward permanent psychosis, or a revolving door policy on the looney bin; undoubtedly he'd still be plagued by hallucinations, auditory and visual, as well as full-blown panic attacks and even worse, an increasing inability to use his one great gift. But here he is, on his way home—a real home, not a place just to sleep and heat up takeout and drink copious amounts of alcohol—to make love to his wife, a woman who sees him for what he is and loves him anyway, and on Monday he'll walk through the doors of his own practice, with his own team at work to find another pair of patients to diagnose. He's hit the Powerball numbers, every single one of them, and he doesn't deserve it at all—but he'll take the reward anyway. He'd be a fool not to.

"One-way ticket," he murmurs aloud, and turns down the street that leads to his house, to see the neighbor's Christmas lights blink and flash as he pulls into the driveway.

He's just rummaged through the fridge for a snack when his cell phone rings. He checks it, with the thought that it's Anne or maybe Roz. Instead he sees 'House, Blythe' on his caller ID. He hesitates, then takes the call. "Mom," he says with some caution.

"Happy New Year," his mother says. She sounds a bit subdued, but still warm and affectionate. "How are you, dear? Working late?"

"What's up?" he sidesteps her questions.

"Well . . ." She sighs softly. "Fine, I'll get right to the point. It's your birthday, and I've wanted to tell you this for a while now, so it seems like a good opportunity and—and an appropriate gift. Your real father is still alive. I can give you his contact information if . . . if you'd like to meet him."

Greg takes a breath. He is consumed by a sudden and intense awareness of his surroundings—the soft light of the lamp on his desk, the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the tv in the other room, the hiss of snow against the window in the kitchen door. "Please tell me he's not career military."

"No, though he was drafted during the Korean war. He's a doctor, a surgeon. Well, he was then. When the war ended he opened a general practice in his home town." Blythe hesitates. "He's—he's not getting any younger. I thought you should have the chance to meet him."

"Very thoughtful of you," Greg says, not quite sure what to say or do, so he takes refuge in sarcasm. "Does he know about me?"

"He does now. I told him a few months ago." Blythe sighs.

"I take it from your reaction he wasn't thrilled." The last thing he wants is to voluntarily walk into this emotional minefield.

"He—he didn't say much. We haven't seen each other since . . . I thought it was best that he didn't know . . . I'm sorry, Greg. I never meant to keep you a secret, but I was afraid of John's reaction—and your real father's too. And—and yours, eventually. I've probably made things worse for you-"

"Where is this guy?"

"He lives in Maine, but he has a computer with a webcam. If you like, you can talk with him that way."

Eventually he takes the information. When he's done Blythe says "I hope . . . I didn't mean to hurt you with this, Greg. I . . . I'm so glad you have Roz, she's such a darling and so right for you, and the Goldmans are wonderful friends . . . but it just didn't seem right to keep denying you the chance to meet your father."

"Stop fussing. I'll deal with it or I won't. You did what you could at the time," he's surprised to hear himself say. What's even more shocking is the fact that he means it. _Holy shit,_ he thinks. _I just gave my mom a pass on stupid behavior._

"Well . . . thank you, dear." His mother sounds tremulous, but he can tell she's smiling too. "Happy New Year to you and Roz, I hope it's a good one."

For a long time after the call ends he stares at the piece of paper with the address scribbled on it. He'll have to think about this first, think about it long and hard. The man who raised him was an utter bastard; god knows what this guy will be like, and there's the added worry of how his biological father feels about him. The fact that he's known about his child's existence for several months and hasn't made contact . . . Greg releases a breath he hadn't realized he held. He should freak out over this. Instead he feels . . . uncertain and anxious. Annoyed as hell at his mother, yeah, even while he understands her reasons to a degree. But there's no huge crisis. Maybe it's just incipient shock, but that isn't enough cause for why he's not an emotional wreck.

_Huh._ He can't help but feel bemused by the whole experience. _This must be something like how normal people handle things._ _How about that. _At last he takes the paper, goes into the bedroom and stuffs it into his backpack. It can wait.

It's just a little before one by the time he hears Roz at the back door. Hellboy jumps off his lap and heads into the kitchen. A few moments later she appears with the cat in her arms. There's a light dusting of snow on the Santa cap perched atop her dark locks; she looks tired but happy. "Hey," she says, and puts the Heebster on the back of the couch so she can remove her coat.

"You're home early."

"Sarah and McMurphy kicked me out," she says, and slips her arms around him as she gives him a kiss that leaves no doubt of her intentions. "They both wish you a _very_ happy birthday," she says against his lips.

"Yeesh, guaranteed to cause shrinkage," he grouses, but his heart isn't in it and Roz knows it. She chuckles and kisses him again. He reaches up and tosses the hat to the floor, then runs his fingers through her thick hair. He enjoys the feel of the silken strands against his skin, and takes comfort from her closeness.

"What is it?" she asks when the kiss is done. Greg smiles a little. Of course she picked up on his mood.

"Mom called," he says. "She gave me my real dad's webcam addy."

Roz's eyes widen. "Wow," she says softly.

"Yeah."

She rubs his back, a slow circle. "What will you do?"

"Not sure yet." He's fairly certain he'll contact the man, but the information has to sit for a while first.

"Are you okay?" She asks it straight out, but she holds him close too, in the shelter of her arms.

"Yeah," he says, and it's the truth. "Yeah, I'm all right."

They hold each other for a while, snuggled together. Then she leans in and kisses his cheek. "Can I ask a small favor before we celebrate in style?" she says after a few moments. He nuzzles her hair, appreciative of the way she doesn't push him with more questions; she'll let him talk to her when he's ready.

"If you must."

Roz pulls back a bit and gives him a stern look, though her gaze is full of laughter. "Don't be a cheapskate."

"Yeah, yeah, spill it already woman. You're taking up valuable time we could be using to have smokin' hot sex."

Roz rolls her eyes. "Fine. I want you to play a song for me. Please."

They end up at the piano. "My lady commands," he says, and executes a little show-off riff. "And your request?"

To his surprise she starts to sing—a breathy little half-whisper, she's still too shy to actually try out the melody in front of him:

_when the bells all ring and the horns all blow_

_and the couples we know are fondly kissing_

_will I be with you or will I be among the missing? _

He comes in, rolls the chords a little, and joins his voice to hers.

_maybe it's much too early in the game_

_ah, but I thought I'd ask you just the same_

_what are you doin' New Year's, New Year's Eve?_

_wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight_

_when it's exactly twelve o'clock that night_

_welcoming in the New Year, New Year's Eve_

_maybe I'm crazy to suppose_

_that I could be the one you chose_

_out of a thousand invitations you'll receive_

_ah, but in case I stand one little chance_

_here comes the jackpot question in advance:_

_what are you doin' New Year's, New Year's Eve?_

When the song is finished they kiss, a long, tender and passionate salute that leaves them both breathless and trembling.

"Happy New Year, _amante_," Roz says finally. Her hand caresses his cheek. "So glad I'm here with you."

He busses her lips, quick and light. "Yeah," he says softly. "Me too. Let's go bring in the damn year already." He closes the lid on the keys and helps her up with him. They stand there for a few moments and indulge in a few more kisses before they go to the bedroom, hand in hand, and turn off the light behind them.

Outside the snow comes down soft and silent, oblivious to the shouts and cheers, the bangs of pots and pans, the sound of rifles and shotguns, the bells. It settles on house and ground alike and offers a transient virgin purity, white and pure in the glimmering dimness.

'_Ballad of Ole Betsy', the Beach Boys_

'_Life is a One Way Ticket', Cousin Joe_

'_What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?', Frank Loesser (Rufus Wainwright's cover is my favorite)_


	11. Chapter 11

_January 8th_

"Hey y'all, get washed up and come to the table, dinner's ready!"

Jason put down the controller as Mandy rose from the couch. She had that faraway look on her face that meant she'd been at work on her stories again. Sure enough, when he passed the spot where she'd been curled up, her notebook sat on a cushion, the screen still on to reveal a page filled with paragraphs. _How does she __do__ that?_ he wondered, envious of her easy way with words.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, the table was set for four and Sarah had just brought in a platter of roasted chicken. "Gene will be here shortly," she said. "Let's get started."

Jason sat down and gave a silent groan as Sarah passed him an enormous bowl of salad. He extracted the minimum amount required of him and drenched it with Italian dressing. The baked sweet potatoes that followed were more to his liking. He took two and ignored Mandy's exaggerated eye roll. She was back on a weight-loss plan again, something he didn't understand; she looked fine the way she was. So she wasn't as skinny as some of the other girls at school, who cared? He thought she was prettier than they were anyway. She certainly had more curves, a fact he appreciated, though he would never tell her so in a million years. At least she had Sarah to help her this time—hence the ultra-healthy dinner. Still, it didn't really matter as long as he had access to all the butter and salt he wanted, and wasn't expected to limit his portions.

This was his favorite time of day—at the table under the mellow light of the pull-down lamp, with the kitchen radio on the news in the background, his foster mom's good cooking and easy, relaxed conversation combined to create a peaceful atmosphere.

"We're reading Shakespeare in English class," Mandy said. She took a bite and put down her fork—also part of the new diet plan, Jason knew because he'd heard her talk about it with Sarah and her mother. He understood the mechanics of that strategy; it would give her brain time to register satiation. He savored the word and his knowledge of the meaning, and was glad he didn't have to abide by it.

"Plays or sonnets?" Sarah said.

"Plays. We aren't reading any specific one right now, just learning a little about each one," Mandy said.

"I don't like Shakespeare," Jason muttered, and wished he hadn't said anything when both Mandy and Sarah looked at him.

"His work is hard to understand when you first start reading it," Sarah said. "The English of his day is different from ours in some ways. But in others it's the same."

Jason didn't agree, but he didn't want to argue. Instead he took a big bite of chicken.

"It's okay if you don't agree," Sarah said with a smile. She got up from the table and went out of the room, to return with a book. It was well-worn, the cloth cover shabby and faded, but she held it as if it was a precious item. She sat down and opened the book, searched through it with obvious familiarity. Jason could see what looked like lines of poetry on each page.

"'All the world's a stage,/and all the men and women merely players,'" Sarah read, but she didn't look at the words. Jason realized she knew the quote by heart. "'They have their exits and their entrances,/and one man in his time plays many parts . . .'" She picked a crouton out of her salad, popped it in her mouth and sat back as she munched it. "What do you think it means?"

"Life is like a play," Jason said slowly. That made sense, sort of. "What does that mean, 'many parts'?"

"Maybe it's like right now we're students in school, but later on we'll have jobs and work," Mandy said.

"Okay," Jason said. He felt a lift of excitement as understanding dawned. "Okay—I get it. We're the actors who play different roles."

"Yes, you're on the right track," Sarah said. "What else?"

"I'm my mother's daughter, but maybe I'll be a wife someday too," Mandy said. "So that means we can play more than one part at a time?"

"What do you think?" Sarah asked. Mandy ate some salad and looked thoughtful.

"Yeah," she said. "I'll always be a daughter even if I get married or become a teacher or whatever."

"Do you think . . ." Jason hesitated.

"Go on," Sarah said. He took encouragement from her matter-of-fact tone.

"Can you . . . take on a part? Become—someone? Even if . . ." He searched for the words. "What if you . . . you wanted to be something you're not?"

"Are you so sure you're not already the part you want to play?" Sarah said softly. Jason poked at a piece of chicken, turned it over with his fork.

"I don't know," he said. Sarah nodded.

"An honest answer. But you might find that as you take on an unfamiliar role, you already have more of it in you than you think." She picked up the salt and sprinkled a little over her sweet potato. "There are several good books on how to read Shakespeare on our shelves," she said. "Anyone who'd like to borrow them is welcome to do so."

Jason hunched his shoulders and applied himself to his dinner. He often saw Gene and Sarah read, and Mandy was a total bookworm. He felt intimidated by their skill and ease.

"Jason," Sarah said quietly. She waited until he looked at her before she spoke again. "It isn't how many books you can go through in a week that matters. It's how much you enjoy and comprehend what you do read." She closed the book and put it by his plate. "This is one of my favorites. Give it a try, see if you like it."

Dinner was almost over when Gene came in, his dark hair powdered with snow. He bent down to kiss Sarah, straightened and nodded at Mandy and Jason. He headed into the kitchen as he whistled softly. Sarah chuckled.

"'Big ball's in Cowtown, we'll all go down/big ball's in Cowtown, we'll dance around,'" she sang along, and gave Jason and Mandy a grin.

After the dishes had been washed and everything put away, Jason sat at the table and opened the book Sarah had given him. The first chapter gave a brief biography and a simple timeline of when Shakespeare's works had been written. Despite his misgivings, Jason found he was drawn into the quotes. To see just one or two lines made it easier to focus on the words and find their meanings. Each quote also had the source play or sonnet paired with it.

Eventually he stuck his finger in the book to mark his place and went to the office. When he knocked on the door, Sarah called "Come in." She sat at her desk, at work on what appeared to be a letter. Jason felt his face grow warm.

"I didn't mean to bother you," he said.

"Don't worry, you're not." Sarah gestured at the empty chair off to the side. "Have a seat. What's up?"

"I have a question." He hesitated. "If I wanted to read a Shakespeare play, which one should I start with?"

Sarah finished a sentence, sat back and turned a bit to look at him. "That's a good question," she said. "Why don't we ask Gene to join us and give his opinion?"

"Macbeth," Gene said when called into the office. "Definitely Macbeth. Blood, armies, witches, ghosts, and great lines." He looked at Jason. "Maybe we could read it together."

"Okay," Jason said. He liked that idea a lot.

"Well I want in on that action," Sarah said with a smile. "But only if I get to be Lady Macbeth."

"Hah," Gene said. "Figures."

"'Out, damned spot! Out, I say!'" Sarah said in an anguished tone. She quoted a line, that was clear.

"You're too good at this," Gene said, but his green eyes glinted with humor. He picked up a pen and held it in front of him with both hands. "'Is this a dagger which I see before me . . . ?'" He gave the retractor a rapid series of clicks to make them laugh. Sarah shook her head at him.

"Ham. This will be fun," she said. "I think we have a copy of the play somewhere around here. If not I can order one for us." She glanced at the computer screen. "I do have some good news, by the way."

"Do tell," Gene said.

"We're scheduled for our home study and interview," Sarah said. She looked excited and a little anxious. "It's the next step in adopting you, Jay."

Jason's heart skipped a beat. "When?" he asked.

"Friday. The case worker and advocate will come here and inspect the house, and then they'll talk with me and Gene, and you too."

"It won't be too much longer before we sign the papers," Gene said. He looked at Jasonand smiled a little. "I think that calls for a special celebration. What would you like to do?"

"You're asking me?" Jason didn't even have to think about it. "A pizza party at Poppi's—I mean, Mister Lou's place."

"I think Lou would be pleased to have you call him Poppi," Sarah said. She glanced at Gene and he nodded. "Okay, pizza party it is. Invite whoever you like. Is it all right if we ask a few people to come too?"

"Yeah," Jason said. He felt happiness inside him like a bubble, light and buoyant.

"And on that note, it's getting late," Gene said. "Time to head for bed. Me too, it's been a long day."

"Mandy's mom will be here to pick her up in an hour or so," Sarah said. "I'll come up then." When Jason got to his feet she said softly, "May I touch you?" He nodded. Her gentle hug felt good. "Sleep well," she said, and let him go. "Don't forget to brush your teeth."

"Girls," Gene said, and ruffled Jason's hair lightly. "C'mon, let's go."

The good feeling stayed with Jason, something that surprised him. As he slipped into bed, he wondered if he could drop a few hints about private saxophone lessons—his band instructor had said it would be worth his while. Maybe his parents—he savored the word—maybe they knew someone who could teach him . . . He drifted off, to dream he played a perfect solo in front of a huge crowd of fans as they all cheered him on.


	12. Chapter 12

_January 13th_

"Thirty-six year old male presents with hemolytic anemia and cola-colored urine." Chandler hunches over the file as if it's her job to protect it.

"And why should we take this guy?" Greg can't resist the question, though it's a legitimate one anyway. Chandler glares at him. It's plain she's gotten up on the wrong side of her narrow, empty twin bed today. She looks tired, though she's as neat and tidy in a dreary sort of way as ever.

"He's been to half a dozen doctors," she snaps. "None of them have a single damn clue beyond those two symptoms."

"You could say that about most of the cases we get," Chase points out. He sips his coffee. "What makes this one special?"

Chandler looks uncertain but determined. "I don't know," she says, but there's something in her tone that belies her statement. She's not quite sure that's true. Well, he can't let her get away with that; time to instill some wisdom. _Socrates, eat your heart out_.

"Not good enough," he says aloud. "Still, I've decided to be gracious because I'm in a good mood." He and Roz had pretty decent sex off his morning wood a few hours ago; the team's heard him brag enough times at this point to know why he's so good-natured. "You have thirty seconds to come up with three valid reasons for us to take this guy on."

To her credit, Chandler doesn't waste time in protest. "One, of the dozen doctors he's seen, no one has the slightest idea what's going on," she says. Her dark eyes gleam with the light of challenge. "Two, his symptoms are just bizarre because he doesn't seem to have any beyond the anemia and the dark urine, but something is clearly very wrong. And three . . ." She pauses. "Three, um . . . I . . . I really want to help him."

"Ooooohhh, so _close_!" Greg heaves a dramatic sigh. "Missed it by this much," he holds up his thumb and forefinger; their tips just barely touch. Probably only Singh has watched enough TVLand to get the reference. Sure enough, Sandesh hides a smile. Chase and Chandler give him blank looks.

"Oh, balls," Chandler says. She hangs onto the folder, refuses to give it up, literally or symbolically. "My wanting to work on it is a valid reason."

"For you," Chase says. "Just because you're obsessed doesn't mean the rest of us are."

"I'm not obsessed! I just think we have a good shot at helping this patient!"

"'We'?" Greg says in a mild tone. There is a brief, charged silence.

"Yeah, we," Chandler says finally. "We're a team, aren't we?"

"Glad you understand that," Greg says, still in that mild voice. "But let's get something straight. You, Apu and the Aussie are a team. I am your dictator, a despot, a proud monarch sitting alone and aloof on his mighty seat of power, which is not the toilet in case that's what you were thinking, and I say no, we are not taking this guy on."

"You're saying no just to say no," Chandler shoots back. "So give me a valid reason beyond your power of veto."

Oh, this is _fun_. This is why he hired her, at least in part—the endless entertainment value. That, and her tenacity. "You think I owe you an explanation, some kind of rationale for my behavior," he says. Chase leans back, his expression one of wry amusement; he's been on the receiving end of this speech on numerous occasions. He knows what's ahead.

"Yeah, I do," Chandler says. Greg leans forward.

"No," he says. "Next case."

"Oh, come on!" She stands up, with the folder clutched to her sad little excuse of a bosom. "Fine, if you won't take it on I will."

"In your capacious spare time?" Greg mocks.

"Since you've left me no choice, yes."

"You always have choices," he says. "Fine. You can work on this outside your regular hours. Stay up all night, sleep in the kitchen, but it can't affect the time you spend with the case the rest of the team chooses to work on."

"You said 'case'," Chandler points out. "Singular, not plural? So you admit mine is worth—"

"We have room for two patients, that's it," Greg says. "Reading more into a gesture than was intended explains so much about you and that acrid desert in which you've decided to exist."

Singh shakes his head. Chase winces in mock sympathy. Chandler stares at Greg like he's lost his mind. "You . . . you have no right to say that," she mutters finally. "You _can't_ say that to me!"

"Why, because it's the truth? Pffft." He flaps a hand at her. "Move on. Next candidate."

Singh takes the hint. He opens his file and says, "Fifteen year-old female presenting with pupil constriction, drooping eyelid and anhidrosis on the left side—"

"Tumor, has to be," Chase says. "It's that or a bulging artery pressing on the nerves around the eye."

"Tests indicate nothing out of the ordinary," Singh says.

They argue back and forth while Chandler pouts, her expression pinched, sullen. It's clear she has no intention to participate, so Greg decides to call her on it. "Nothing to add, oh champion of the downtrodden patient?" he says.

"They've covered it all," Chandler says. He narrows his eyes at her.

"_Seriously_? Because from where I'm sitting, your job description includes actual participation in differential diagnoses."

"What's the point? You're just gonna shoot me down anyway," Chandler snaps. Greg offers her a bright smile, though it probably looks more like a snotty smirk to her.

"Never know till you try," he says. She gives him a suspicious glare, then glances at Chase and Singh, both of whom just look back at her.

"Okay, well," she says with caution, "maybe we should test again for a tumor near the eye—"

"Gee, that's a great plan, I'm totally in favor, let's do it!" Greg says with every bit of fake enthusiasm he can muster, and stands up. "Get this patient admitted and do it now before you waste any more of their time and mine with this idiocy." He heads out of the conference room and into the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee and finds McMurphy with the carafe in hand as she scrubs it clean.

"Any time you want to get around to brewing a new pot it would be appreciated—and I use the word 'brew' advisedly, considering your true vocation as resident witch. Actually that's spelled incorrectly, but you know how English grammar rules are. W in place of b in public conversations," he says. McMurphy shoots him a look that can best be described as inimical.

"If you want a constant supply of caffeine, I suggest you stop leaving a tablespoon of the old batch behind to cook into tar," she says in that dry way he's come to expect, and maybe even relish a bit already.

"Your assumption I'm the guilty party says more about you than it does about me," he retorts. "Though I have to say that your rule about the person who takes the last cup making a new batch is easily thwarted when that last person leaves oh, say, a little coffee for someone else to drink."

"If I may point out the elephant in the room, why does it only happen when you're here?" she asks. "Just for that I'm reimbursing myself from the petty cash for the last two weeks of buying stuff at the bakery."

"Cheapskate!" he calls after her, and takes another doughnut from the box on the counter. They're all covered with hideous neon-pink icing and yellow sprinkles, a passive-aggressive revenge for the snow fort complete with towers built in her parking space. He'd only done it because she had forgotten to get Jake, the local snow maintenance guy, on contract and both Chase and Singh had bitched for ages about being sent out to shovel his space and everyone else's. He'd told them to get creative with the piled-up snow . . .

An hour later, while surfs for inventive positions he, Roz and his right quadriceps can try out, Chase sticks his head in the door. "Everything's set," he says. "I'm off to pick up our patient."

"Thought it was Singh's turn at chauffeur duty."

"Yeah, but his youngest has a recital tonight." Chase shrugs. "It's not as if I'm doing anything anyway."

"What, no hot date with a posse of local cheerleaders?" Greg sits back, amused. "Finding the pool of available talent a bit lacking?"

"Chase tilts his head. "Gosh, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't. Not since I got my own anyway." Greg puts his hands behind his head. Chase smiles a little.

"She's a good catch, your Roz," he says. "She have any sisters, cousins, best friends?"

"No. Off you go," Greg says, and dismisses his minion with a wave of his hand.

"When do I get my money back from the last time I drove? I kept the receipts."

"Can't hear you!" Greg says loudly. "Don't spend too much time trolling the fleshpots of Syracuse! Bye bye!"

Chase rolls his eyes and departs.

It's noon now, give or take a few minutes, and he's officially run out of things to keep him occupied. There's no point in any further delay; might as well go home, maybe stop on the way to pick up some things for the game tonight. Roz usually makes sure there's plenty of chips and beer on hand, but right now he craves pretzels, the kind you get in those big barrels in the party aisle, and maybe some pizza rolls, and another six-pack of that local pale ale Gunney discovered a month or so ago.

He's in the store, just gone past the dairy section when his phone rings. The caller is an unexpected one however. "Doctor House," Mandy says. She sounds scared but determined to stay calm, even though her voice shakes a little. "I think something's wrong. Jason got taken out of class earlier this morning, it was his—his dad, his biological father. Jason didn't want to go, but the teacher made him—" She stops, then continues. "He hasn't come back. I tried to call him but it went to voicemail. I called Doctor Sarah too, but no one's answering at the house and I got voicemail on her personal number too."

"You called just now?" Greg says sharply. A cold little worm of foreboding burrows into his belly.

"A few minutes ago, when lunch started."

"Did Jason say anything to you?"

"He tried to, but they took him out of the room too fast . . ." Mandy falls silent and Greg gives her credit—she hasn't freaked out, though she wants to.

"Talk to the teacher, see if you can find out anything. Call me back if you do." It's not like Sarah to not answer her phone. She usually goes in early to work at Lou's for several hours of food prep and to help out with the lunch crowd, but she keeps her cell turned on. "If anyone gives you a hard time, tell them to contact me."

"Okay." Mandy sounds a lot younger when she speaks again. "I'm afraid Jason's dad will hurt him."

There's no answer to that; Greg hangs up and abandons the cart, moves at high speed out of the store and down to the little hole in the wall police station.

"Okay, we'll check it out," Matt the cop says. "I can go by Dave Bramble's place, see what's what. God knows I won't have to look up the address, we're out there every coupla weeks for something or other." He gets up and puts on his jacket. He wears a gun; Greg wonders if he's ever used it for anything besides shooting mangled half-dead roadkill deer.

"I'll be at Lou's," Greg says with reluctance; he'd love to hand all this off to someone else, but at the moment he _is_ that someone else. "You'll be getting calls from people with more information as it comes in. We'd better trade numbers."

"Got it," Matt says. They do so and he heads out, calm and unflappable in his winter gear.

Lou's place is busy but there's no sign of Sarah. "She didn't come in," Lou says. "I called the house and no one answered. Her phone went to voicemail. I thought I'd close for an hour after lunch and check on her." He gives Greg a look that goes right through him. "What's going on?"

He wants to be flippant but he can't, not about this. "She might be in trouble."

Lou doesn't hesitate. "What do you want me to do?"

"Dunno, still trying to figure out what's going on. If Roz calls—" _Shit_. He flinches and pulls out his phone.

"Hey _amante_," Roz says when she answers. "What's up?"

He tells her, makes it plain and simple. She doesn't interrupt. When he's done she says "I think I know where Dave might be headed. If I'm right it's going to be tough to find him and anyone he has with him."

"You mean the summer cabins at the lake," he says, as his heart sinks.

"And the ones higher up on the mountain," Roz says quietly.

"You need to let the cops know," Greg says. His mouth is dry. That's a huge area to cover; it'll take days.

"I'll call Jake. I'm on my way, see you shortly. Love you," and she's gone. Greg starts to put his phone away when it rings again. It's Mandy.

"The teacher said Mr. Bramble told the principal he had permission to take Jason to a family gathering." She is outraged. "I bet she didn't even check to see if it was true!"

"That idiot needs to be drawn and quartered and then fired," he mutters. "All right, I'll tell the police." He makes a quick call to Jake. When he hangs up he is aware his heart pounds, and an odd feeling flutters around his brain. _Panic_, he realizes. He pushes it down with an expertise he hasn't used in a while, and assesses the situation. _Have to call Gunney_. Gene is in Albany, due back tomorrow. With a sigh he hits speed dial.

"I'll be there in three hours. Give me updates," is all Gene says before he hangs up. Greg puts his phone in his pocket and goes back to Barbarella. All he can do now is wait for the various elements set in motion to produce results. It strikes him then that this situation is much like an initial diagnosis, with the team sent out to get a history and set up tests . . . but never before have the results mattered so much.


	13. Chapter 13

Sarah paced back and forth across the small room. She did it as much to keep warm as to vent her frustration and fear. _I should have known this was going to happen,_ she thought for the hundredth time. _I should have guessed Jason's father wouldn't give him up. _She'd been nearly ready for work when he'd walked in the front door of her home as if he owned the place. Without a word he'd pulled a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it at her, then gestured toward the door.

"Don't run," he'd said. "I have the stupid little bastard."

So here she was somewhere on the side of the mountain in someone's old hunting cabin, forced to wait on an unknown quantity's next move. Bramble had planned this; the place was cleared out, or at least the room she was in had been emptied, and two large locks put on the front door. She could probably break the single small window and escape that way, but he still had Jason, and she knew the man's implied threat wasn't an empty one. Anyway, she had only the vaguest idea where she was. At least this place was shelter of some kind. If she ran now it would mean trying to find her way home in the dark, and the weather was raw, with plenty of snow. She'd probably freeze to death before she even made it a mile. But this was all pointless speculation for one good reason.

"Bastard took my boots," she muttered. And her purse, phone and watch. At least he'd left her her coat; the cabin was unheated, and the down parka would give her a somewhat improved chance at survival.

Her best hope at this point was Lou. He would notice her absence of course, and after he tried to call and had it go to voicemail a couple of times, he would most likely come out to the house to check on her. He might even call Gene or Greg, but all that would take time, and by then it might be too late . . . The idea stole her breath for a moment. She paused, aware she shook, and not just with cold.

_This man will expect you to panic,_ she thought. _Don't give him what he wants. Analyze him instead. Look at his behavior, his body language. Get him to talk to you if you can. Then form a plan of action based on the information you've gathered. That's if he ever comes back. _The thought of abandonment made her heart stutter. She closed her eyes for a moment and took several deep breaths. The cold air chilled her lungs, but also brought clarity in place of fear.

_If you allow yourself to give in to panic you've already lost the battle._ Sarah glanced out the little window. _He'll come back, to make sure I'm still here if nothing else._ The short winter afternoon had already begun to fade; by her best reckoning it was close to three. Night would fall soon. She had to find some way to stay warm.

She'd managed to pry open the door to the back room when she heard a truck pull up. Quickly she shoved the plywood plank in place and faced the front entrance. Someone fumbled at the locks. A moment later the door opened and someone came in. Sarah found she couldn't move, gripped by horror. It was Jason. He'd been stripped down to his underwear, his feet bare, and he was almost blue with cold. The sight pushed her out of her shock. She ran to him as the door was slammed shut.

"You'll find a way to keep each other warm. Just don't tell his old lady, she'll be jealous!" The rough voice broke into laughter and then a series of harsh, hacking coughs before the locks were engaged. A moment later the truck roared to life and moved away with a clash of gears. Sarah took off her coat. Jason tried to move away. His body shook visibly in a vain effort to gain some warmth.

"N-n-no." His teeth chattered when he spoke, but Sarah ignored him. She put the parka on him and stuffed his arms into the sleeves, zipped the coat shut, then brought the hood up and tied it in place.

"There are extra gloves in the pocket. Put them on. Please," she added when he hesitated. As he obeyed she sat on the floor and peeled off a pair of socks and her sweats, thankful she'd decided to put on thick waffle-weave thermals and wool foot-warmers under her outer clothing that morning. "These too."

He did as she asked. When he was covered, she said quietly "May I touch you?", mindful of the words his father had hurled at them. So her suspicions about abuse were correct, but now was not the time to talk about that, not yet anyway; they had a long night ahead of them, and eventually they'd address it out of necessity. Jason nodded and went into her arms. He hugged her so tightly she could scarcely draw breath; he trembled, and not just with cold.

"I'm s-sorry," he said. Sarah rubbed his back in an attempt to offer comfort.

"Not your fault," she said, and patted him gently. "Are you all right? He didn't hurt you?"

"I'm okay. What about you?"

"I'm fine. We need to make some shelter, find something that will hold in our body heat." She gave him a little squeeze and then looked him over. "Better now?" Jason nodded. "Okay, let's see what we can do."

The back room didn't look promising at first until Sarah found a tall stack of newspapers and broken-down cardboard boxes in a corner. There was a small woodstove in the main room; no doubt this stuff was intended to be kindling or cheap fuel for a quick hot fire. It could work for them in a different way, however. "Newspaper is great at holding in heat. So is cardboard." Sarah took a deep breath. "Just—just be careful when you start to take the stack apart. Make sure you keep your gloves on and don't expose your wrists."

Jason began to separate the boxes. "Why?"

"Spiders." She said it with reluctance. "Most of them will run but sometimes they—they don't."

He didn't stop his work. After a moment he said "I can do this if you want to look for something else."

"Thanks, but I've looked everywhere. The place is bare."

"How about the rafters?" Jason said, and picked up the boxes he'd freed. Sarah stared at him. Then she tilted her head back. She began to smile.

"Oh, my clever boy," she said softly. Straight above their heads was what appeared to be a pile of old moving pads—filthy of course, but thick and apparently whole.

They built a shelter in the middle of the main room, with the boxes as walls. They covered the top and floor with thick layers of newspapers and two of the bigger pads. It meant they had to crawl in and out, but also gave them less area to heat. "Pee now," Sarah said. "You won't want to do it in the middle of the night, trust me."

They'd set up an old ash bucket in the back room with several sheets of newspapers handy. Sarah let Jason take the first turn. It was dark now, and the cold had begun to intensify. She was glad to creep inside their haven, close the makeshift flap behind her and find it warmed up quickly. She could sense Jason's apprehension however, it was almost palpable. With care she eased next to him, but didn't touch him.

"Are you warm enough?" she asked quietly. "Your feet and hands, ears and nose, you can feel them?"

"Yeah. I'm okay. How about you?"

"I'm fine." She took a breath. "There's something we need to talk about."

"What?" The tense wariness in that single word warned her to go slow and careful, but also to be honest.

"Your father said your mother would be jealous of us finding a way to stay warm. He meant she abused you sexually, didn't he?" Jason pulled away from her and said nothing. "I wouldn't do that, Jason—I would never touch you in a sexual way, ever." She hesitated. "Someone . . . someone did that to me too, when I was your age."

For a long time Jason said nothing. Then, "Who was it?"

"My cousin." She shivered as she remembered the nights she'd lain in bed, heard the door open and tried to take her mind away. "I was seven when it started. It didn't stop until I left home in my teens."

"You . . . you didn't tell anyone?"

"I tried, but . . . they all knew and didn't care." It hurt to say that, to recall old pain she'd never been able to leave behind. The betrayal still cut deep.

"He knew." Jason spat the words out. "He thought it was funny. He said . . . he said it was my fault."

"That's not true." Sarah put every ounce of conviction possible into the words. "You did nothing wrong, Jason. The adult is the one at fault. The ones who know and do nothing, they're responsible too. It's not you."

"Why did she . . ." He struggled to get the words out now. "Why?"

Sarah fought the urge to put her arms around him. "I don't know, Jay. Maybe someone abused your mother. Sometimes it happens through several generations in families. My mom . . . it happened to her too. And someone could have hurt my cousin that way, I don't know."

"But if they know it's wrong, why do it to someone else?"

Sarah sighed. "When people are in terrible pain it can make them want to hurt someone else. But you don't do that, do you? And I don't either. We can always choose different actions, always."

Jason was silent a long time. Then he moved so that they lay together spoon-fashion, with a few inches of space between them. Sarah understood this gesture for the enormous show of trust it was.

"Thank you," she said. "May I touch you?"

"Okay." That single word, tight and small, told her he was scared. Sarah very gently slipped her arm around his waist and put her hand on his chest, above his heart. He stiffened, but when she didn't do anything else he relaxed just a little. Her stomach took that opportunity to emit a loud, long growl. She chuckled and after a moment, Jason made a noise that could have been a laugh.

"Well, I don't know about you but I'm starvin' along with everything else," she said. "So the best way to get our minds off circumstances is to sing some songs."

"You sing," Jason said, and moved a bit closer.

"All right," she said, and went through her inventory. "Let's see . . ."

Over the next hour or so by her reckoning she sang herself hoarse; she dug up songs from the dim recesses of her memory—anything she thought would keep Jason's mind off the crisis at hand. At one point she even used 'Dunderbeck the Butcher', just as she had done once in a dream about her first foster son, and Jason's reaction was much the same as Greg's had been. They were alike in so many ways—brilliant, wounded, vulnerable. Greg would be out of his mind with worry for her and Jason too, though he'd channel it into solving the puzzle of their disappearance. At least now he had Roz to steady him, give him the reassurance and emotional strength to deal with whatever would happen.

At last she was rewarded with a yawn and a few moments later, another lengthier one. When she sang again she made her voice quieter now, the melody slower, more gentle.

_in Dublin's fair city_

_where the girls are so pretty_

_I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone_

_as she wheeled her wheel-barrow_

_through streets broad and narrow_

_crying 'cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh_

_alive alive, oh_

_alive alive oh'_

_crying 'cockles and mussels alive alive oh'_

_she was a fishmonger_

_and sure 'twas no wonder_

_for so were her father and mother before_

_and they both wheeled their barrow_

_through streets broad and narrow_

_crying 'cockles and mussels alive alive oh'_

"What's a cockle?" Jason asked. He sounded sleepy now, and very young.

"It's a little clam that lives in salt water," Sarah said. "Someday when we're at the shore we'll look for them together."

Jason sighed. "If we ever get out of here," he said. Sarah reached out to smooth a lock of hair from his forehead, but pulled back. She felt a surge of anger at his mother for that fear in her, and in Jason too.

"We will," she whispered. "You'll see." She waited until she heard his breathing begin to deepen. Then she sang one last song, her voice barely above a whisper.

_sleep my child and peace attend thee,  
>all through the night<br>guardian angels God will lend thee  
>all through the night<br>soft the drowsy hours are creeping  
>hill and dale in slumber steeping,<br>I my loving vigil keeping  
>all through the night<br>_

She paused. Jason was in the first stages of sleep, his features relaxed. Sarah brought the moving pad up around him and thought of Gene. He would surely know by now that she and Jason had been taken. She worried about what this would do to him; he would stop at nothing to get both of them back, and while part of her hoped he would find them quickly, another feared actions he would regret later. He already had so much in his military past that weighed on him . . . She closed her eyes and heard the final verse play out in her head.

_love to thee my thoughts are turning  
>all through the night<br>all for thee my heart is yearning  
>all through the night.<br>though sad fate our lives may sever  
>parting will not last forever<br>there's a hope that leaves me never,  
>all through the night<em>

'_Cockles and Mussels', traditional tune_

'_All Through the Night,' traditional tune_


	14. Chapter 14

_January 14th_

Jason was dragged out of sleep by the sound of an engine. It knocked and stuttered as it was shut off—a familiar noise. Fear gripped him; his father had returned. He started to move and tensed as Sarah stirred beside him. "We'll be all right," she said quietly. "Let me do the talking." She gave his back a gentle pat, then moved away.

They crawled out of their shelter. Jason shivered as the frigid room air penetrated the warmth of the borrowed clothing he wore. Sarah got to her feet and moved in front of him as the locks were opened one by one. Jason could hear his father grumble as he fumbled and struggled, but at last the door was yanked wide.

"So you're still alive," David Bramble said. He gave a loud belch. It was clear he was drunk, but Jason wasn't surprised. He'd rarely seen his father sober at any hour of the day or night. "Wonder how you managed that."

"No thanks to you," Sarah said. She sounded different—sharper, like a newly-honed knife edge. "Care to come in? You're heatin' the outdoors. And while we're on the subject, how about some firewood at least so we don't freeze to death?"

His father gave a harsh laugh. "Smartass," he said, and stepped forward to slam the door shut behind him. Jason saw he held what appeared to be a six-pack of bottled water and a plastic bag of food. With a casual swing of his arm he tossed them both at Sarah's feet. The bottles broke apart and scattered over the floor; some of the contents of the bag spilled out to reveal a loaf of bread, a package of cheese and several candy bars. Jason was about to get on his knees when he saw Sarah's right hand, slightly behind her back. She had her index finger extended. It twitched back and forth several times; the message was clear—_don't_. He froze. Sarah made no move to pick up the food and water.

"Can't have you starvin'," his father said. "You're neither one good to me sick or dead."

"What do you plan to do with my son?" Sarah said. Jason flinched. David walked up to her. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her face close to his; he wasn't that much taller, but he used those few inches to his advantage.

"He ain't yours, you red-haired bitch."

"He already is." Sarah said it softly, but the words were ice-cold. Jason saw then she shook, but he didn't think it was because of fear or even the lack of heat in the room. Her hands were clenched tight, her knuckles white. _She wants to hit him,_ he realized. Suddenly he saw her as she must have been at his age, a skinny kid with a thick tangle of red-gold curls, bruises and cuts all over her, fists up to defend herself—broken by abuse but still able and ready to fight. His heart gave a painful twist at the knowledge.

"Like hell. Damn brat's mine and he'll always be mine." David shook her with the force of his hold, then pushed her away. She took a step back to steady herself but stayed on her feet in front of Jason.

"You don't deserve him when you act like this and you know it," she said. "He's a fine boy with a good heart and a brilliant mind, the one great gift life's given you, and all you've done is try to break him, turn him into someone like you! _Why_?" She hurled it at him. "Why would you do that?"

"What the fuck do you care? You don't know nothin'," David sneered.

"Says you. So you had it tough when you were a kid. I had the life nearly beat out of me almost every damn day by my parents and anyone else who wanted a go, but that doesn't give me the right to do it to someone else."

"I don't see no scars on you!"

For answer Sarah stripped off her sweater to reveal a scoop-neck thermal tee shirt. She did it without hesitation and held out her arm to show him the cut marks, then pushed her hair to the side and turned enough to give him a look at her shoulder.

"I got the buckle end of every belt my bastard father owned," she said, and her voice trembled. "And the back of my mother's hand when she was bored or drunk, and my brothers using me as a punchin' bag when I was old enough to tell them to leave me alone. But I decided not to do what they did because it was wrong. I couldn't stand the thought of being like them—any of them." She held her sweater in her hands, goosebumps raised on her pale skin. "What _happened_ to you, David? How did you become so cruel?" The toughness was gone from her voice, replaced by a sort of angry, reluctant compassion.

His father stared at her for what seemed an eternity. Then he said "Put your damn sweater on." He spoke in a low, rough tone Jason had never heard from him before. He sounded almost embarrassed . . . _He's_ _ashamed,_ Jason realized, shocked by the revelation. _He __knows__ what he's doing is bad, it's not just him being drunk and stupid_.

Sarah didn't move. "You can stop this," she said. "Take us back and I'll get you some help, you have my word."

His father looked weary, almost frightened for a moment before he turned away. "Promises are bullshit. Enjoy your time with each other, it won't last much longer."

"My husband's coming for us." There was something in the way she said it, matter-of-fact and level, that made the hair on the back of Jason's neck stand up. "If you had even one functioning brain cell you'd take us down off this mountain right now. Keeping us here's a mistake."

Before Jason could blink his father turned and swept out with his right arm. He hit Sarah hard enough to make her stumble. "Shut the fuck up from now on," he said, and left, but not before he locked them in. Jason ran to her. She sat on the floor hard, narrowly missed a water bottle, and put a hand to her mouth. It was bleeding and there was a bright red spot on her jawline, but she didn't seem like she was scared, just a little dazed.

"Damn," she slurred the word a bit. "Saw stars there for a second," and wiped away some blood. She picked up her sweater from the floor and tugged it on, shivering. As she bent over he caught a glimpse of the marks on her back, short silver lines where the buckles had scarred her, and understood what she'd done. He was surprised to find he was angry and scared and worried all at once. He didn't know whether to shake her or hug her.

"Don't do that again!" he snapped. "I don't want him hitting you instead of me!"

He expected her to yell back at him, but instead she got to her feet and reached out. "May I touch you?" she said softly. Jason glared at her, then nodded and stared at the floor. She took his hands in hers, held them gently. "_M'chridhe_," she said. When he finally lifted his gaze, her green-grey eyes held love and determination in equal measure. "Better me than you."

"Just because people used to beat you up doesn't mean you're the one who should keep getting hit," he said. Sarah looked surprised.

"Thank you for that," she said after a few moments, her voice husky. "Let's—let's get everything picked up and put away."

There was a package of cheap lunch meat in the bag, along with a small jar of peanut butter. "I know you're hungry, but we have to ration this," Sarah said as they made sandwiches. "We'll eat the bologna first. Everything else will keep." She handed him a bottle of water. "Sip it slowly, otherwise you'll get cramps. We can take this in with us so it doesn't freeze."

They stored everything in the bag and climbed into their shelter to get warm and eat. The food tasted like heaven. Jason tried hard not to devour his sandwich but it disappeared too quickly all the same. Still, when Sarah put half her sandwich in his hand he tried to refuse it. "I'm not hungry," she said.

"Your stomach's been growling all morning too," he said. For answer Sarah closed his fingers over the half.

"Take it," she said. "I don't really like bologna and cheese. Anyway, I'm looking forward to a bite of chocolate."

The extra food took the keen edge off his hunger, as did the chunk of candy bar Sarah offered. He settled onto his side, glad of the warmth around him. Sarah brought up the moving pad they used as a blanket.

"All right?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah. How's your face?"

"It's a little sore but it'll be okay. May I touch you?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yeah."

Her hand came to rest on his back, light but firm. "I know you're worried," she said after a while. "I meant what I said earlier. Gene's coming for us."

"But he doesn't know where we are. What if he can't find us?" Fear surged through him. "What if we're stuck here?"

"He'll find us. We'll make it." Sarah sounded confident.

"You don't know that," Jason said.

"Yes I do." She rubbed his back, her touch gentle. "The first tool of survival in a bad situation is deciding you'll come out alive. If you give in to fear and panic, you've already lost your chance."

There was a comfortable silence after that. Jason found he liked to have Sarah close; he felt protected and cared for. "How did you and Dad meet?" he asked after a while.

"In college. He sang at a coffeehouse—sort of like a variety show, you know what that is?"

"Yeah."

"Laynie was with me and she kept talking about how cute he was, but I thought he looked like a pirate. Afterwards he asked me out. I was going to say no . . . and then he smiled. That smile got me."

The happiness in her voice helped him feel better. "When did you know you loved him?"

"The night he had to cancel a date because something came up. I was so sad and couldn't understand why until I realized it was because he wasn't with me."

"Did you tell him?" This was better than a book.

"Yeah, eventually. He got me to admit it and then told me he loved me too." Sarah lightly tugged a lock of his hair. "You'll find someone someday, _m'chridhe_, you'll see. I bet you'll have girls hangin' all over you, my handsome young man."

"_Mom_," he groaned, mortified. She chuckled.

"Why don't you have kids?" he asked after a while.

She didn't answer right away. "When I was a little bit older than you, I made a mistake. One of the consequences was that I had to have surgery. It means I can't have children."

"What kind of mistake?"

"Someday . . . someday I'll tell you," she said. "Not right now, okay? I'm not trying to keep secrets, it's just . . . it really hurts to talk about it."

"Okay," he said, and knew he could trust her to honor her word. "Is-is that why you want to adopt me?"

"No, love. Gene and I want you to be our son because you already are as far as we're concerned. The adoption's just a legal formality." She patted him gently. "I can't wait till everything's settled."

"Me too. Do you think . . ." He hesitated. "If—when we get out of here . . . what do you think will happen?"

"Your father will be arrested," Sarah said quietly. "He's guaranteed that by his actions. If anyone else in your family knew about this, they'll be taken in as well. As for us, we'll talk to the police and then probably go home."

"I don't care about my parents," Jason said. "I don't want to see him or—or her ever again."

"Don't say that," Sarah said. That surprised him. "I know they've treated you badly to say the least, but some part of you still loves them."

"No I don't!" He said it loudly in an attempt to deny her words. "I hate them both!"

"Jason." Sarah's quiet voice silenced him. "I used to feel the same way about my mother and father. I tried hard to forget they ever existed. But all that did was make it impossible to love anyone else. I don't want you to go through years of feeling nothing but rage. It makes you sick inside."

He thought about it for a while. "How can you hate someone and love them at the same time? That doesn't make any sense."

"Human emotions rarely do," Sarah said. "I want you to remember one thing. Your father didn't have to bring us food or water. He can say all he wants about keeping us alive—that's true to a large extent, but I think there's more to it." She sighed a little. "All right, enough about that for now. Tell me about what you're working on in science class. Laynie says you and Mandy are doing a good job with the weather station . . ."

Eventually he drifted off. He woke up once and heard Sarah's slow, even breathing, her hand still on his back, warm and protective. _Maybe it really will be okay,_ he thought, and slipped into sleep once more.


	15. Chapter 15

_January 16th_

"How many times do I have t'tell ya, I don't know what that stupid fuck's doin'. I ain't seen him in m-months."

Greg watches the woman as she speaks. She's lying, that much is plain; her eyes shift back and forth, her arms are folded tight, and she made a slight, almost unnoticeable stutter before the word 'months', an indication she thought the choice of word might be too over the top.

Matt glances at him and nods slightly at Greg's raised brow. "When ya gonna stop givin' us a bunch of bullshit?" he asks, mild as milk. The woman gives him a defiant glare.

"I'm not lyin'!"

"Yeah you are." Matt sighs. "You understand that David's already in a lotta trouble over this, to say the least. All you're doin' is makin' it worse, for him and you too."

"I ain't seen him," the woman insists. "Whatever he's up to, he told me nothin' because he ain't been around, okay? I kicked his worthless ass out the door weeks ago."

Greg shakes his head. "No you didn't."

"Shut up, asshole," the woman says. She won't look at him.

"Your boy and Doctor Goldman are somewhere on the mountain. It's possible they'll freeze to death when that storm hits," Jake says. "You want to be responsible for that?"

The woman shrugs, but now she looks nervous. It's not for Jason; it's all about her. "Not my problem, I didn't take 'em up there."

"Not your problem." Matt looks disgusted. "Jesus, Ellie. He's your _kid._"

She sighs. "You finished with me?"

"I think we'll hold you for a while," Matt says. The woman glares at him.

"I ain't done nothin'!"

"We'll see. If I find out you're in on this with David I'll do my best to make sure neither one of you set foot outside a prison again."

After she's been hauled off to the holding cell, Greg calls Goldman. "Nothing," he says when Gene answers. "What's the latest?"

"We're stuck at base camp," Gene says. "It's snowin' like hell."

Greg stares out the window at the swirls of snow, illuminated briefly by the office lights. "Any sign of them before you had to stop?"

"We found tire tracks matching Bramble's on the south side going up, but this goddamn snow's gonna wipe 'em out." There is no emotion in Gunney's voice—no anger, no fear, just flat, cold implacability. Greg knows that tone all too well; he'd heard his father use it when he talked about bombing runs into enemy territory. It's not the first glimpse he's seen of the steel in Goldman's spine, but it's as if the other man has set aside his humanity. This is not a good thing. Ramifications will come later however; there are people to rescue, and at the moment it doesn't really matter how it gets done.

"I'm going up anyway," Gene says. "I'll follow for as long as I can." He pauses. "You're not goin' with me."

"You gonna stop me?" Greg has to say it.

"You'll slow me down. You know you will. I'll know what I'm doin', you won't." Gene says it without meanness or intent to hurt; it's just the truth.

Greg knows it's useless to protest, but he still has to have some control over the situation, some small piece he can call his own or he'll lose his mind. "Take the radio with you."

"Have to travel light."

"Take the fucking radio!" he snaps. "You know we'll find you faster when the storm stops, just do it!"

There's a brief silence. "Yeah, okay. Keep interrogating the woman, she'll break eventually."

"Working on it," Greg says, but he's talking to a dead line; Goldman's hung up on him. He starts to put his phone away and it rings—the tone's 'I Can't Quit You, Baby', so it's Chase, who wouldn't call unless it's _muy importante_. "What?" he growls when he answers.

"X-ray came back on Amy. She's got a tumor in her right lung at the top of the lobe." Chase sounds concerned but not worried. "This pushes the diagnosis toward Horner's."

"That's what Singh posited," Greg says, momentarily diverted from present troubles. "How much did he soak you for?"

"Twenty." There's a smile in Chase's voice for a moment; then it's gone. "She'll need surgery."

"Good thing you've got experience."

Chase sighs. "Fantastic. I'll have her moved over to the medical center tonight before the weather gets worse. We'll yank that thing out of her."

"You and your sad little fetish for technical terms, it's going to get you in trouble someday," Greg says.

"Hah. Here's hoping this solves the problem," Chase says. "Removing the tumor doesn't always resolve the symptoms. She might still have trouble with sight in that eye."

"All we can do is take care of the likely cause." He pauses. "How's Chandler doing with her patient?"

"Not making much progress. I think he's got a clot in his liver," Chase says. "His sclarea's on the yellow end of the scale and his right side's bunged out a bit."

"You gonna take pity on her and tell her it's probably paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria?"

"She's almost there now, I won't spoil it for her."

"Get the heparin ready and start checking the bone marrow donor lists. If you have to intervene to save that poor bastard, do it. Let Wirth know he might be headed over as well, heparin's a fucker when the patient's anemic too. Damn weather." Greg mutters the last sentiment.

"Yeah. How's it going with the search?" Chase says. He's well-used to his boss's scattershot thought patterns by now, something Greg relies on more than he'll admit.

"Bubkes," Greg says.

"_Shit_." Chase likes Sarah—she's helped him considerably since he's dried out—but he likes Jason too. When Chase hangs at the Goldman house, they play video games together and act like a pair of trouble brothers. "I won't tell you I'm praying for them."

"Good," Greg says, and ends the call.

He walks to the holding cell, where Jason's biological mother sits on the bare bunk. She's probably twenty years younger than Greg, but she looks twenty years older. She spares him a sullen glance as he approaches the bars.

"You know where he is." She doesn't bother to answer. "You two brain trusts planned this together. I don't know what the hell you thought you'd get out of holding your son and Goldman hostage, but you made the same mistake you always do. You depended on that moron you shack up with. Now he's left you to deal with the mess as usual because he can't stick to any kind of plan, his brain's nothing but mush after years of marinating it in cheap beer."

"Fuck off." She sounds weary.

"I know you don't give a rat's ass if your kid and Doctor Goldman live or die, but if they don't make it you're looking at accessory to murder. You'll never be a free woman again." Greg says it soft and low, he knows he doesn't have to shout.

"What makes you think I'm free now?" The bitterness in her words reaches out to grab at him with familiar cold claws. Only a few years ago he felt the same way—trapped in a world narrowed to nothing but misery and pain, with one day after another, endless in their uniformity, to endure. He feels no pity for her though; her narcissism and lack of empathy have shielded her to some extent. She's angry because she got caught, and for no other reason.

"Help us find them. Send the bastard to prison." He says it even though he knows she won't listen, but he has to try. She looks away, then lies down with her back to him. The conversation is over.

"He'll show up," Greg tells Matt when he returns to the office.

"She told you that?"

"Didn't have to. He's blown it and isn't sure what to do next now that his old lady's in trouble too. He's got nowhere else to go, so he'll probably get drunk and sneak into his place when he thinks we won't be looking, small hours maybe."

"I'll have Jake watch the house." Matt hesitates. "Goldman's going up the mountain, isn't he?" Greg nods. Matt sighs softly. "Dammit." He looks tired. "He's ex-military. I hope he knows what the hell he's doing."

There's nothing more he can accomplish here, so Greg heads off to the Goldmans place, where Roz waits for him. They made the decision to stay at the house in case the power goes off; they can take care of things for Gene and Sarah, and it's likely to be the first place everyone will show up unless they need the medical center. That probability is something he doesn't need to think about more than he does already, so he sets it aside and parks Barbarella in the side space that's come to be his now, and heads into the house. Snow comes down thick and fast; the flakes aren't thick and fluffy but tiny broken pieces, powdery and hard. That's not good, it means temperatures will plunge even further . . . and it'll be even colder on the mountain. He hunches his shoulders in his pea coat and stands on the porch. A large part of him is torn between an attempt to force Gunney to take him along, and to stay where he can do the most good, which is here. He actually starts to turn around a couple of times, ready to go back. After a few moments he exhales long and slow, opens the door and goes inside.

When he walks in Hellboy greets him. He sniffs at the snow on Greg's sneakers with delicate disdain. Greg bends down to twiddle his ears and takes a bit of comfort in the ritual greeting. As he straightens, Roz walks into the living room. She comes to him and puts her arms around him, coat and all. She's smells of coffee and herself, warm and sheltering. His arms come up slowly to bring her close.

After a quick supper neither one of them really wants, they curl up on the couch in front of the fire. Greg tries hard not to think of Sarah and the kid cold and helpless somewhere. He feels useless, terrified of an outcome he cannot affect in any way.

"Hey," Roz says softly. "Sarah's a survivor. She'll take care of Jason. You'll see."

"Even Wonder Woman has her limits," he says, and flinches at the anxiety he hears in his voice.

"Maybe so, but she'll use everything she knows to keep Jason alive and herself too." Roz's quiet words hold conviction. "Anyway, we're right here if they need us to help out. Otherwise we'll just be in the way."

Greg stares into the flames as they flicker and dance in the fireplace. He wants his wife to be right, but he knows the odds and the random uncertainties and obstacles life likes to place in peoples paths. He can only wait to see if she's proved correct.

They have the weather channel on when Greg's phone rings. This time the tone is the Chi-Lites 'Homely Girl'—it's Chandler. Roz gives him a stern look, though there's amusement in the green depths of her eyes. "You are so mean," she says as he answers the call.

"It's PNH," Chandler says. She sounds defeated. "You already knew, didn't you? Chase had the heparin ready."

Normally he'd have fun playing with her, but not tonight. "As soon as the damn weather clears up we need to get him to Albany."

"Okay." She hesitates. "Any word on Doctor Goldman and Jason?"

That surprises him; he didn't think she knew the kid's first name. "No."

"I'm sorry," she says, and she means it—another surprise. "If there's anything I can do—"

"Keep an eye on your patient and that chunk of coagulated blood in his liver," he says, and ends the call. Roz tightens her hold on him gently.

"I made up the bed in the room at the end of the hall," she says. "There's a fire going too, and I put the steam kettle on the hearth."

"You go up," he rubs her hip, glad of her closeness. "I'm not ready, not just yet."

After Roz leaves him, he banks the fire and shuts the lights off except for the one by the easy chair, and goes into the office. Everything's in order here; he's about to go out when he sees the six-string's case propped by Sarah's chair.

How he ends up on the couch with the guitar in his hands is not quite clear, but there he sits. There's a Dampit in the soundhole; he removes it and notes it needs water, even as his fingers strum gently to tune and check the fourths. Then he's playing, just chords with no recognizable melody, as he waits for the tune to come to him just as Sarah used to do when she would play him to sleep. He thinks of those nights when he lay in darkness, not just physically but in other ways as well, and the sound of the music from the living room eased him away from despair and pain. Now she's in peril and he cannot help her, but as irrational an act as it is, he wants to play as a way to bring her and the boy home safely.

So as his hands shape the chords and pick the tune, he pictures both her and Jason safe and whole in this room, just as they have been many times before. The song is one he's heard Sarah play and sing on occasion, her voice raised in the main melody or in fine harmony, clear and true.

_As I went down in the river to pray_

_studyin' about that good old way_

_and who shall wear the starry crown_

_good lord show me the way_

_oh sinners let's go down_

_let's go down come on down_

_oh sinners let's go down_

_down in the river to pray _

'_As I Went Down In the River To Pray,' traditional hymn_


	16. Chapter 16

_January 17th_

Gene slowed the ATV and wiped a rim of snow from his right goggle. He'd moved steadily for some time now, and made good progress despite the driving wind and cold. The access road was in decent shape, probably because it was in regular use all year; he'd only had to stop once before this, and that was to maneuver around a rock fallen into the road bed. He wondered briefly how many fuel lines and shocks had met their match there, then pushed the thought away as irrelevant for the moment. Nothing mattered except to find the place where his wife and boy were held hostage.

He glanced at his watch, then the terrain around him. He was about an hour from the base camp—not all that far in miles since he'd gone slow and steady, but he'd covered enough distance to consider the possibility that Bramble would be alerted to his presence if the other man was on the mountain to guard his victims. It wasn't likely given the conditions—he suspected Bramble wouldn't inconvenience himself beyond a minor annoyance or two—but it paid to be cautious. Besides, he needed to look at each cabin he found, and it would be too hard on the ATV in this cold to leave it idling for long periods, or to shut the engine on and off. He'd walk the rest of the way.

Gene put the ATV on the side of the road behind some bushes, out of the way but accessible, and covered it with the tarp he'd brought along. If it continued to snow, the vehicle would be camouflaged quite effectively. He put on snowshoes, struggled a bit with the stiff new bindings, then shouldered his backpack, checked his watch again and started up the road. The muscles in his thighs protested a bit against the effort required. The rhythm was similar to cross-country skiing, but less of a glide and somewhat slower.

It took a little time, but he soon found the right rhythm to stay in the top layer of snow. He had to stop occasionally to find places where the drifts weren't as deep; while the wind had begun to sculpt dunes with the new flakes that fell, little of it had packed down, which meant he sank into the loose powder. Still, he kept a steady pace and was rewarded with a smooth stride that covered distance nicely.

As he moved forward he thought once more of his Special Ops instructor, a grizzled old veteran who'd probably gone through every notable campaign since Caesar crossed the Rubicon. "Heat's easy," Wainwright had told his newbie squad as they'd stood shivering and naked in an empty, hard-frozen field somewhere in the wilds of northern Michigan. "Cold's a nasty fucker. It'll take little nibbles out of ya, make ya numb and sleepy and then yer deader than a mackerel and twice as useless." He'd pointed to the post at the far end of the expanse. "Run there, stand for five minutes and run back."

That little exercise had more than proved the old man's point. Gene had been careful to wear several layers, with breathable natural fibers beneath the bitchin'-cold-weather gear Sarah had bought for him a couple of years ago—a parka and cargo pants lined with polymer insulate to hold in heat. He was covered from head to toe without a single inch of skin exposed, and he had on skiing goggles to keep his eyes clear. _Good thing I'm not claustrophobic_, he'd thought when he suited up at the base camp. It had become an odd good luck mantra of sorts, one he'd used in Somalia and the Gulf and Haiti; he needed that luck now more than ever.

As he climbed the low grade he thought about what he might find, but did his best to contain his emotions. They were a distraction, a waste of energy he couldn't afford when he needed every molecule of strength devoted to the task at hand. He knew Sarah possessed extraordinary skills at survival, an art she'd practiced since early childhood. He was certain she would do everything in her power to keep both Jason and herself as safe from harm as possible. But with all his effort, he still struggled to keep fear at bay. What if she'd been hurt? He knew the man who had taken them was physically abusive, violent. Sarah would protect Jason at any cost . . . Gene shook his head and concentrated on a steady momentum. Whatever had happened, he'd deal with it when he found them.

The first cabin he came to was set close to the access road. The area around it hadn't been disturbed and the tire tracks went past it, but he checked anyway, and took care to search for traps. He didn't think the kidnapper had the brains to set up anything, but assumptions got you injured or killed. He'd seen friends die in Somalia because they'd grown careless, complacent. He'd learned to look, to listen, to pay 'right smart attention', as Wainwright had put it, when something in your gut told you things were hinky. He'd escaped a slaughter that way once; a warlord's army—more of a gang, but loaded with weapons-had ambushed their patrol. He'd been the only one to survive, return to base and report what had happened. He'd almost lost an ear when a bullet creased his head as he pushed the dead driver from the seat and took over . . . He remembered the fear inside him, hot and slick. After that he'd never let down his guard again.

The next cabin was further back. It was big enough to be a vacation home and not just a one-room shack. Gene made note of the size and accommodations as he walked around it. When he found Sarah and Jason, if they were uninjured and the walk wasn't too far, they might be able to stay here until the rescue crew could come up to get them. Most people kept things set up in their cabins for just such emergencies. He'd never had to use the hospitality of strangers before, but one of his brothers had once years ago, when he'd worked in Alaska for one of the big oil companies. A bad storm had hit and left Evan snowbound when he'd been out on a pipeline break inspection. Two rooms with a stove, a cord of wood and a store of food had kept him alive until the company crew could fly in to haul his ass to safety.

Gene took a meal and pee break an hour or so later. He munched part of a power bar and took a few sips of water from the flask in his inner shirt pocket. A glance at his watch told him it was close to three a.m.—he'd walked for some time, and while the exercise kept him more than warm enough, he risked the loss of focus. _The next place I come to I'll use for a bivvy,_ he thought. _If there's nothing around I'll make a snow cave and grab an hour or two. _He fought the urge to keep going. It made better sense to stay rested; the old military adage "alert alive" said it best.

In the end he made a cave. It was a simple matter to find a drift to the leeward side of the slope on the road and dig out a compartment with one of his snowshoes. Some pine boughs made a decent bed to keep him off the ground, and a ventilation hole was easy enough to create with the help of a stick. He put his pack in front of the entrance and settled in.

_I'm close,_ he thought, as he listened to the sound of his breath while it slowed and grew more even. _If this clown has no ability to follow through, then he didn't take them to the top of the mountain—it's too far. He drove deep enough to use the forest as a screen, but not so far he'd have to waste a tank of gas getting to them._ That would make it easier to get them off the mountain, certainly quicker at any rate. Gene leaned back against the pine boughs he'd placed on the wall and closed his eyes. Greg had alerted Wirth and the team at the medical center, and his own people would help out if necessary. McMurphy had offered to come up the mountain and he'd been tempted to take her up on it, but while she was experienced in rough conditions she was also older and more fragile physically than she'd been in the 'nam. It was better that he was on his own. He was glad House had pushed him to take the radio, though. It made his pack heavier, but it would help the rescue team find them much more quickly . . . He managed to doze off on that comforting thought.

When he woke and checked his watch, he'd gotten a little over two hours of sleep. Gene stretched a bit and leaned forward to move the pack, then crawled out. Fresh snow testified to a brief squall that had stopped some time ago, for which he was grateful. Unfortunately the tire tracks were almost invisible now, nearly hidden by the eight inches or more of total snowfall and erased in some places by the wind. Gene used a pinpoint flashlight to find the faint ridges. If the kidnapper had gone much further there wouldn't be anything left of them very soon . . .

He followed the tracks and used the light to help, but only when absolutely necessary; it took time to restore his night vision, and time was a precious commodity. He'd been forced to use up some of it to rest, but now he had to keep going.

For the next hour or so he saw nothing except trunks, fallen branches, drifts and a few faded, faint ridges in the road—all that remained of the truck's trail. At last even they gave way to a wind-shaped blankness. Gene stopped as his frustration rose. He set it aside and looked around, scanned the area slowly. Ahead and off to his left was a dark square shape, nearly obscured by trees. On impulse he raised his light, swung the beam back and forth. Through the thick curtain of snow he caught a glint—light reflected from a smooth surface, like a windowpane. He felt a surge of hope deep within and moved forward.

The cabin was small, not much more than a shack, but it had a chimney. It also had a door with two large and quite clearly new locks placed on it. Gene stopped, moved the beam of light around the perimeter. Slowly he made a circle around the building. There appeared to be no wires or trips, nothing disturbed, but the snow could hide danger.

It was on the second time around that he saw it: a tire track, sheltered from the worst of the wind and snow by a scrubby jack pine's half-broken branch. The track ended a few feet from the front of the cabin, near the door. Gene went on his haunches and shone the pinpoint beam over the ridges and depressions. There was an area about the size of his palm left untouched; the tire pattern looked like the one he'd memorized at the base camp. A fierce exultation welled up inside, but he didn't give in to it. Instead he stood and began to ease his way to the door as he checked for traps and wires. When it was plain the entrance was clear, he took off the small pack around his waist and removed the Phillips head screwdriver from the basic tool kit he'd brought along. The locks had been installed with a power drill, but with perseverance he was able to get the screws halfway out. It was a matter of brute strength after that; he ripped off the hardware with all the pent-up rage and terror he'd caged deep within, then opened the door, forced the warped boards when they proved reluctant, and stepped inside.


	17. Chapter 17

_January 17th_

Sarah woke with a start. She lay in the warm stuffy darkness, Jason's soft breathing filling the small space of their shelter, his body relaxed in sleep. Something had shaken her into consciousness though, some new noise—she could just recall it at the edge of her first awareness above the moan and growl of the wind. A faint, sharp sound that wasn't a branch creak . . . She waited for it to come back. Some minutes passed. At one point Jason whimpered and snuggled more tightly against her. Sarah gently rubbed his back and he tensed, then relaxed. Nothing more happened however, so she closed her eyes and—

The sound returned—a rhythmic scraping. It seemed come from the door. Sarah held her breath. What the hell _was_ it? She hadn't heard the truck so it wasn't likely to be their captor. Her breath caught in her throat. A bear? Silence fell. She gripped Jason tight on a sudden foreboding.

A crash jolted through the cabin; she felt the floor shudder. Jason woke with a gasp. Sarah slid her hand over his mouth. When he nodded she stroked his cheek, then let go of him to move out of their shelter. He grabbed her arm; his indrawn breath told her he was scared and didn't want her to leave. Sarah put her hand over his, gave it a reassuring squeeze before she gently pulled free and crawled out as two more loud bangs shook the structure. She turned to face the entrance and put herself between whatever stood out there and her boy. The door racked twice and then burst open in a swirl of snow, icy air and bright light. Sarah raised her hand to shield her eyes. She swallowed on a dry throat and planted her feet as she shook with fear.

"_Sarah__ . . ._" The light was lowered and she caught a glimpse of a tall figure in dark outdoor gear before she was swept up in long, strong arms. "Oh god, _Sarah_," Gene said again, and she heard the agony of relief and fear in his voice. She clung to him as shock and recognition replaced terror. "Your face—"

"I'm okay," she said. "I'm okay. It's just a bruise."

"Where's Jason? Where is he?"

"_Dad?_" Jason got to his feet. Gene moved the light beam over him, then held out his right arm.

"Son," he said. Jason wasted no time. He ran to them. Gene brought him close. The three of them huddled together, their breaths mingled in the frigid dark, as they clung to each other like shipwreck survivors.

"Thank god," Gene whispered. His voice trembled. "Thank god." He tightened his hold. "You're—you're all right, both of you? You're alone? Bramble isn't here?"

"We're okay. I don't know where he is. He hasn't been back since yesterday," Sarah said. She tried to stop shaking but reaction had set in. "Gene, he's got a gun."

"He forced you both here at gunpoint and left you to freeze," Gene said. She heard the fury in his voice. "That _bastard_—"

"We made a shelter," she said. "We're all right, love. We've been able to keep warm, and he—he gave us food and water. I just thank every god there is that you're here."

Gene repaired the door so it would stay closed after he and Jason had carried in most of the firewood piled next to the entrance. Enveloped in Gene's parka, Sarah laid the logs and put the starter he'd brought under the stack along with some of the papers from the back room. It worked quickly; within fifteen minutes the wood had begun to catch. A wave of warmth issued forth. Sarah closed her eyes in gratitude as Gene settled next to her. He had what appeared to be a radio in his hands. He placed it on the floor and extended the antenna.

"If the storm's cleared they'll be up in the morning to get us the hell out of here," he said, and leaned in to kiss her before he turned on the radio, set a few dials and took the handset. "Base, this is Able Team One. Do you read, over?"

"A Team," Sarah said, "you smartass," and shook her head, but she gave him a hug as the radio crackled to life.

"Able Team One, this is base, we copy, over."

"Found 'em, both more than ready to come home but otherwise okay. No sign of Bramble. Let Matt and Jake know he's got a gun, over," Gene said, and put an arm around Jason's shoulder as the boy came to sit next to him. "Grab my pack," he said softly. Jason reached out for the backpack and pulled it toward them. "Look in the front, there are some big flat packages there. I brought dehydrated soup and stew. You decide what kind you want."

"Copy, Able Team. We'll be on our way as soon as possible." Sarah chuckled at the sound of cheers and shouts in the background; even the operator smiled, she could tell. "Excellent work, over."

"Thanks. Okay, we'll see you when we see you. Don't forget the doughnuts and hot coffee. Over and out." Gene switched the radio to standby mode and set it aside. "We can have a hot dinner," he said. "There's a collapsible pot, we just need to melt some snow and get things cookin'." He put an arm around Jason and Sarah both. "Sound good?"

Within the hour they ate beef stew out of some chipped coffee mugs Sarah had unearthed from the back room, and scoured clean with melted snow water. They'd given Jason the only spoon as well as the lion's share, along with some toasted cheese sandwiches.

"I don't suppose you have any tea," Sarah said, as she watched their boy wolf down his third helping. Gene grinned at her and opened a pocket on the backpack to reveal several teabags.

"Wouldn't dare to show up without it," he said, and earned himself a kiss.

While she steeped a cup of tea, Gene rearranged the makeshift shelter to make a pallet close to the hearth, with a space blanket placed on the floor to reflect more of their body heat and insulate them from the cold floor. The cabin had warmed up somewhat with the fire blazing away, but Sarah was surprised to find she was almost more appreciative of the light than the heat. "What did Bramble's woman say?" she asked softly as she and Gene sat before the fire. Jason lay behind them, burrowed under layers of protection as he snored softly.

"She's not talking." Gene kept his voice down as well, careful not to disturb the sleeping boy. "Jake's watching the house in case Bramble comes back, but no one's seen him in the last couple of days."

"He might be hiding out up here somewhere." Sarah shivered and drew closer to Gene. "I don't think he's got a plan, at least not anymore."

"Yeah," Gene said. He touched her bruised face with gentle fingers. "What happened?"

"I said something he didn't like," she said. "I think . . ." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "He's decided he's already gonna burn in hell, so he might as well make the journey there worthy of the destination. Don't underestimate him, Gene. He's more dangerous than he appears because he's given up. He believes he has nothing to lose now."

"Damn." Gene exhaled a long slow breath. He kissed her temple and rested his cheek against her hair for a moment. "I'll stand watch tonight."

"You need to rest," Sarah said. "I'll do it."

They went back and forth until Gene finally gave in. "But only for two hours," he said, and handed her his watch. "We'll trade off until the crew gets here."

"I can't wait to get home and take a long hot bath," Sarah said. "Then maybe you and I could start a fire in our bedroom."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Gene said, and gave her a lingering kiss that made her tingle in all sorts of places. "Consider that a rain check," he said, stretched a bit, got to his feet and moved behind Jason. He lay down next to the boy and brought the makeshift covers over them both. Sarah watched as he slipped an arm around their son, smiled at her and closed his eyes. She felt a surge of fierce tenderness at the sight. With a soft sigh she poked at the fire, put another log on and turned a bit to face the door. In a few hours they would be home, and this nightmare would be over. There would be difficult times to face as a consequence, but they'd be together; they'd make it.

The two hours went by slowly, but it was not an unpleasant wait given the circumstances; at least she was with her family. The cabin was a different place with the heat and light of the fire to fill it. Still, she was more than ready to leave.

At one point the radio crackled to life. Gene stirred as she answered it. "Able Team One—what a stupid-ass name," a familiar voice growled, and Sarah couldn't help but smile. "Goldman, you there? Over."

She picked up the handset. "Able Team One, copy. Over."

There was a brief hesitation. "Oh, listen to you. Aren't you all cool and military-like," Greg said. "You're okay? You and the kid and Gunney? I was expecting your honey-bunny to answer. Over."

"We're fine. He and Jason are sleeping. What are you doing up at this hour? Over."

"Waiting for surgery results," Greg said. "Thought I'd give you a call and chit-chat to pass the time and find out when the hell you're coming home. Over."

"Soon as the base camp crew can send someone," Sarah said, careful to keep her tone casual. The anxiety in Greg's voice was plain. "Gene brought the ATV, but it's not safe to have all three of us riding it given the amount of new snow on the access road. I think they'll head our way at sunrise, that's—" She checked the watch.

"I know when sunrise is," Greg snapped. "Don't do anything stupid between now and then. Over."

"Like what?" Sarah said, and smiled. "Can you really picture me running around naked outside? Don't even bother to answer that," she added quickly, and heard Greg's reluctant chuckle. "I plan to sit tight and so does everyone else here. Over."

"See that you do," Greg said. He sounded a little calmer now. "Catch you in a couple of hours then. Over."

"Looking forward to it, son," she said with a smile. "Over and out."

After a few moments of exploration she figured out how to put the radio on standby. She set it aside and glanced at Gene and Jason, then got up to dump her cold tea and make another cup.

It was about five minutes before she was supposed to wake her husband when she heard the truck in the distance. Its engine labored as it climbed the grade. She moved to Gene and put a hand on his shoulder. He was awake in an instant as he sat up.

"It's him," Sarah said. "He'll know someone's here, even if he's drunk. He has a gun." Her voice shook. Gene took her shoulders in a gentle grip.

"Stay calm," he said. "Take Jason and go into the back room."

Sarah bit back the automatic denial that rose to her lips. "What will you do?"

"Protect my family." He kissed her, hard and urgent. "I love you."

"_No!_ Don't you _dare_ say goodbye just in case, Michael Eugene Goldman!" she snapped, and took his face in her hands. "I love you too and that means we're all going home together. Don't be a hero, dammit!" She let go and shook Jason awake. "Come with me," she said. "Hurry."

They hid in the back room and shivered in the frigid air. Sarah kept Jason behind her, her hands tight on his; he trembled hard, pressed close to her. The truck came closer, stopped. Sarah held her breath.

The front door slammed open. Shouts, a struggle, and then the thing she'd dreaded—a gunshot. Terror gripped her.

"_No!_" Jason tore his hands away and pushed her aside. He yanked the door open and erupted into the main room. Sarah ran after him in time to see Bramble raise the gun and fire. Jason was flung back; he fell to the floor. There was blood on his shirt. Sarah stared at him, felt time dilate and slow. Her gaze swung to Bramble. He moaned, a low, horrified sound, and dropped the gun. It went off as it hit the floor; something hot stung Sarah's leg. She and Bramble stared at each other.

"I didn' mean it," he said. He was so drunk he could barely form the words. "I didn' . . ."

"_Beidh mé tú a mharú,_" she said. A rush of something like exhilaration filled her and she drew in a huge shuddering breath. A red mist filled the room. She took a step, then another. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a hard, wild drumbeat that urged her on. She ran forward and shoved the man to the ground. He fell under her like a sack of wet sand; he reeked of stale cheap beer, a stench she knew all too well from her childhood, the poison-sweet reek of alcohol in his pores. Her hands grasped his neck, lifted his head, slammed it into the floorboards. "_Beidh mé tú a mharú!_" The words welled up in a hoarse yell. She brought his face close to hers, shook him. His eyes rolled back and she took a savage satisfaction in the sight. With all the strength in her she pushed him down and squeezed his throat, her thumbs jammed into his adam's apple. He choked, his hands clumsy, too weak to do more than swat at her. "_Dóigh i ifreann, bastaird tú!" _

"Sarah . . . _don't!_" Gene's fingers closed over hers. They had blood on them. "Go to Jason. He needs your help."

The sound of his voice snapped her out of her rage. She dropped Bramble, ignored him as he crawled away from her toward the door. There was a hole in Gene's shoulder and blood oozed from it in a sluggish trickle, but he reached out to grab her arms. "Sarah! Go to Jason!"

She did as he told her. Jason lay on his back, eyes closed, arms flung out. Sarah dropped down beside him and lifted his shirt. There was an entry wound just below his right collarbone. She felt for a pulse. It was there, faint and a little thready. His eyelids lifted, then fell. Behind her she heard the door pulled open as Bramble stumbled out. Her gaze shifted to the gun a few feet away, then back to Jason. "Stay still," she whispered. "Don't move, _m'chridhe_."

"Able Team One to base," she heard Gene say behind her, his voice thin with pain. The truck roared to life and for a moment Sarah was terrified Bramble would ram the cabin, but he drove off in a clash of gears. "Base, mayday mayday mayday. Mayday . . . mayday mayday!"

"Your phone—give me your phone!" Sarah said. Gene grabbed the backpack, dug in a pocket and tossed her his smartphone. She turned it on and thumbed through speed-dial, hit Greg's number. He answered on the second ring.

"This better be good, Goldman."

"I need you," she said. "Greg . . ." She put a hand on her leg because it hurt, and felt something warm and sticky on her palm. "Greg, he shot—shot them . . ." It was hard to get the words out for some reason; the red mist was gone, replaced by a slow, steady darkness.

"What the hell! Sarah? _Sarah!_ Answer me, dammit!"

_Beidh mé tú a mharú_—I will kill you

_Dóigh i ifreann, bastaird tú_—go to hell, you bastard


	18. Chapter 18

_January 18th_

Greg had demanded to be included with the emergency crew headed up the mountain. He's had enough of sitting around while other people handle things; enough of news, good, bad and terrifying, given second-hand. All that's happened from his hands-off approach is three people shot, and no one able to tell him what's become of his family.

Now he's in the medical center, he sits with Sarah in the little area that serves as the ICU. Gene is on one side, Jason on the other. The kid's better now; the bullet nicked the top of one lung and chipped a piece off his scapula, and he's lost a lot of blood. Still, he's young and healthy; he'll have a stint in rehab and an interesting scar, but no permanent damage. Gene's wound is a simple through-and-through in the meat of his shoulder above the collarbone. He's also suffered more from blood loss than anything else, but a couple pints of O positive fixed that problem. Both boy and man are asleep now, which is more than can be said for Sarah.

She sits in a comfortable chair, wrapped in a blanket. She wears a set of scrubs two sizes too big, her injured leg propped on an ottoman with a pillow. The bullet just grazed her calf, but it took off skin and a little muscle and burned her too; it'll take a while to heal. There is a large bruise on her jawline, already begun to fade from purple to yellow. It's more visible now because she's had a shower and cleaned off an impressive layer of dirt. Her curls are tamed into a braid as well. She looks absolutely worn out, her sea-green eyes huge in her white face, but she won't leave. While Greg has told her several times to go home and get some rest, he understands she needs to stay here. She almost lost her family this morning. To be honest, he wants her close anyway. The thought of her out of his sight is more than he can handle right now.

So he sits with her. She shivers now and then, but the Ativan she was given does its good work to keep her calm. "What about Bramble?" Her quiet voice holds no emotion. "Have they found him yet?"

"Dead. Drove off the access road and rolled the truck, broke his neck. They don't know if it was an accident or deliberate, probably won't ever know. Given his likely blood alcohol levels, it was a _fait accompli_ anyway." He inspects her, a leisurely process. "What the hell happened? How did Gene and the kid get themselves shot?"

Sarah bows her head. "I don't know yet what happened with Gene," she says. "Jason and I were in the back room behind the door. We heard sounds of a struggle and the two of them shouting at each other, and then . . ." She grinds to a halt.

"And then?" he prompts.

There is a long silence. "I tried to kill him—Jason's father," she says finally. Guilt darkens the simple statement. "When he shot Gene Jason ran into the room, I couldn't stop him, and Bramble shot Jason out of reflex more than anything else—"

"Please tell me you're _not_ trying to take responsibility for what that bastard did," he breaks in, unable to hold back his incredulity. "He came up there so drunk it's a wonder he wasn't dead already from alcohol poisoning, he had a gun in his hands with the safety off and you're feeling _bad_ because you went after him. _Jesus_."

"I'm not trying to excuse him." She sounds so tired. "I didn't choose my actions, I reacted. It made the situation worse."

"You couldn't do anything else!" He says it more harshly than he'd intended, but he doesn't like where this conversation is headed.

"He needed my help." She stares down at her hands. "I'm a counselor, a healer. I could have tried harder to reach him long before this whole mess went down."

"He was beyond your help!" Greg can't believe it. "You think you could have reasoned with him! When, exactly? After you and Gunney decided to take in the kid before he was starved or beaten to death? Or maybe while your husband and your foster child lay on the floor bleeding out. You're not superhuman! You saw your family being harmed and you went after the one causing the harm!" He glares at her. "This isn't about choice. This is about guilt." Sarah says nothing—doesn't agree or disagree, just sits there. "You couldn't stop what happened, and now you're hung up on hindsight."

"Could we—could we please not talk about this right now?" Her voice is a thin thread of sound. Greg ignores her.

"You think you're required to save everyone because you hold genuine compassion for those who need help," he muses aloud. He can see the pieces of the diagnosis as discrete objects; he turns them over in his mind, finds the way they fit together. "That's the main reason why you do what you do, but there's a shadow side, an arrogance that whispers 'I have to save them all'. And when you can't, it negates everything that came before." He levels a stare at her. "Perfectionist," he says. "All or nothing—the same thing you've accused me of for years. And here we are back at brownie points for you as a counselor. How very interesting. Guess I was right—people don't change." That last is pure provocation, just to see how she'll respond.

For a while Sarah says nothing. Then she takes her leg off the ottoman and unwraps the blanket, gets to her feet. Her movements are slow, precise. She's plainly in pain, but she ignores it. Well, she's had enough practice with that method, true enough. "What are you doing?" Greg asks sharply. She only limps away, her back very straight.

They end up in the back room that serves as a morgue, because of course he follows her. A passing nurse pauses in the doorway, glances at Greg, asks for a silent assessment of Sarah's condition. He knows this won't do her any good, but he also knows he can't stop her. He gestures: _get lost_. The nurse narrows her eyes at him but leaves them alone.

Sarah looks down at the body bag for a few moments. Then she reaches out and unzips it to reveal Bramble. Not a pretty sight-he's been banged around and his head lies at a weird angle, caused by the broken neck that killed him. "He was ashamed," she says in a low, rusty voice Greg's never heard from her before. It takes him a moment to understand it's grief. There are no tears in her eyes, no obvious signs of agitation, and yet he knows that's what it is. "When I told him about my—my own childhood, that he wasn't the only one who'd had it rough . . . he was ashamed. And that makes me wonder if . . . he wasn't like Jason once, and his family decided to destroy him."

"You can't know," he says. "Don't spin fairy tales to support your guilt. He _hit_ you."

"It's my job to discover the truth," she says fiercely. She looks at him then. Her eyes are haunted, full of shadows. "You of all people should understand that. For me to find out what really happened I have to know this man's history, and now all I'll ever have is second-hand accounts because I didn't talk to him while he was alive." She slams her fist down hard on the steel tabletop twice, a sudden action that has him flinch with the violence. "I didn't _talk_ to him! I didn't _reach_ him!"

"This isn't about you! You're not responsible—" he begins.

"_Yes I am!_ And so is everyone else who knew this man was a danger to others and himself and did nothing about it! Maybe if we'd tried a little harder, set up an intervention—something, anything—" She hits the table again.

"Stop it!" Greg reaches out, grabs her hand. The knuckles were already bruised and split, now her fingers and the side are red; she'll have hematomas. "You failed this time, accept it and move on!"

She yanks free of his hold. "Is that what you do? 'Accept it and move on'? You're a bullshit _liar_ if you say yes! How _dare_ you tell me to do that! How _dare_ you! You know I can't accept it and move on any more than you can! This is my life's work and I failed again! And now this man is dead and my husband and my youngest boy were put in harm's way because I FAILED THEM ALL!"

"Stop it," Greg says. He's scared now; he's pushed her too hard. "Sarah, stop."

For answer she zips up the body bag, then turns her back on him and walks away. She limps hard. The sight paralyzes him. For a moment he can't move, can't think. His hand creeps to his right thigh, rubs the great scar through the material of his jeans. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "Need your help," he says when Roz answers.

[H]

Roz found Sarah in a chilly little corner of the main reception area. She was huddled into one of the easy chairs, her coat wrapped around her; she watched the snow fall, her pale face illuminated by the soft, cold light. Without a word Roz stood in front of her, then knelt down and put her arms around the other woman. For a long time Sarah didn't respond. She sat motionless. Finally she took a slow, shuddering breath. She leaned into Roz's embrace slightly; she shook hard. Roz said nothing, just held her.

They went to ICU together. Gene was awake; he watched them approach. Roz brought Sarah to his side, moved a chair over and sat next to her, her hand on Sarah's back. Gene didn't speak. He took Sarah's injured hand in his. She stared down at it.

"I want you to go home," Gene said after a time. "You're in shock and you need to rest. Jason and I are all right."

Sarah shook her head. A bright curl escaped and floated above her right ear.

"Sare," Roz said. "Come home with me for a few hours. You can crash on the couch and have some supper. Then you can come back to make sure everyone's all right. I promise you, no one will try to keep you away." She rubbed the older woman's back gently. After a while Sarah got to her feet and turned toward the door. Gene gave Roz a look: _take care of her_. Roz nodded. "I'll call you later," she said softly, and slipped an arm around her friend as they walked out.

The ride to the house was a silent one. Roz didn't push for conversation; she simply drove. Sarah stared out the window, her expression impassive. It was a short drive, but it seemed to take forever. Roz was glad when they pulled up at the front door. She'd kept everything in readiness, so when they entered it was to warmth and light. But Sarah didn't go in; she stood on the threshold, her expression wary. Roz knew why, and felt a deep sorrow. _She's afraid of her own home now._ Aloud she said"Would you like me to call Matt, have him come out?"

Sarah didn't answer. She limped into the room, moved toward the dining room and came to a halt. There were books and papers spread over the table—Jason's homework, Roz realized. Sarah reached out to touch a pencil perched atop the open dictionary. She sat down on the chair pulled away a bit from the table, an abrupt, graceless motion. "He . . . he left it out," she said. Her voice was rough, unsteady. "I told him to get everything ready or he'd be late for the bus, but he was trying to get things finished . . . and he ended up going without half his stuff." She paused.

Roz moved to the chair next to Sarah's and sat down. "Did you take him to school?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes . . . he knows I'll do it and sometimes he takes ad—advantage . . . I give him a hard time about it but I don't really care and he . . . he knows it . . ." She swallowed. "His father took him from school."

"That scares you," Roz said. Sarah nodded again. "What happened after that, can you tell me?"

Sarah straightened the pencil. "I was doing the laundry—you know, just—just an ordinary morning. Going-going through pockets. Both of he and Gene forget to take things out—I—I have a basket on the dryer. It's full of change and—bits and pieces, flash drives, all kinds of things . . ." She paused. "I'd just put a load of jeans in and when I turned around there was a man in the doorway. I think he'd been watching me for some time. He said 'I won't let you have him'. He sounded like he was asking for a cup of sugar. Just—just casual and matter-of-fact and so . . . so big, standing there with a gun pointed at me." She shivered. "My dad—he—he did the same thing to my mom once, when I was little."

"And that's when he took you?"

Sarah swallowed. "Yes. He let me have my coat and gloves but he made me hand over my phone . . ." She blinked. "Did they—have they found the phones yet? He took Jason's too."

"I don't know but I'll find out," Roz said. "Do you feel like you'll be safe here tonight? It's okay to have Matt take a look around."

"It's not necessary," Sarah said. "I know the house is safe."

Roz leaned forward and took Sarah's hand in hers. "It's okay to want it anyway," she said. "I'll call him."

Matt made a thorough search of the house and grounds. "Looks good," he said, and accepted the cup of coffee Roz offered. "If you need someone to come out again, just call."

"What about Ellie?" Roz said.

"She's being held as an accessory. It's pretty obvious she was in on the whole thing, but she's not talking." Matt shook his head. "What the hell either one of them was thinking is beyond me. I can't say I'll miss the calls to that house, but even so it's a shame this happened." He sipped the coffee. "Jason deserves better. At least he'll be getting that here with you and your husband, Doctor Goldman."

A bit later they sat in front of the fire in the living room. Roz rubbed Sarah's shoulders. After a long silence Sarah said "I don't know that Jason will be better off here."

"Why?" Roz asked quietly.

"I failed him." The wild grief in Sarah's voice wrenched at Roz's heart. "I failed him."

"Why do you say that?"

Sarah's hands came up to grip hers. Her right hand was deeply bruised, the little finger swollen. "He trusted me to keep him safe. Now look at where he is. Gene too." She moaned softly, a low sound full of pain. "They almost died, oh my god . . . sis, they almost _died_ . . ."

Roz slipped her arms around Sarah's shoulders. Sarah turned into Roz's embrace. She sobbed once, twice, and shook as if she'd fly apart. Roz held her close, her own eyes full of tears.

When Sarah had quieted Roz helped her up on the couch and went into the kitchen, to come back with a tray. The contents consisted of a damp washcloth, two cups of tea and a pile of sugar cookies. Roz set the tray on the coffee table and picked up the washcloth. She cleaned Sarah's face, careful to keep her touch gentle.

"How bad's the pain?" She offered the tea. Sarah took it but made no move to drink.

"My leg hurts. My hand too . . ." She sighed. "I lost my temper with Greg and took it out on a metal table."

"I think he understands. He's beside himself with worry about you, he just doesn't know how to tell you, so he pushed you instead." Roz picked up a cookie, put it in Sarah's other hand. "You need to eat something so you can do your pain meds and lie down for a while."

Sarah stared at the cookie. "There was so much blood," she said. "I stopped the bleeding, but it was everywhere and I couldn't—couldn't think . . ."

"When I messed up my finger there was blood all over me," Roz said. "It was weird, like a scene from a movie or something. It didn't look real."

"Yeah." Sarah bit into the cookie, chewed slowly, swallowed. She drank some of the tea and closed her eyes. "God, this tastes so good. It shouldn't, but it does."

She ate and drank, and didn't protest when Roz gave her the meds Wirth had prescribed. "Lie down for a while," Roz said. "Get some rest, and when you're ready we'll go back to the center."

"You don't have to lie to me," Sarah said. She sounded weary now. "I know you gave me a sleeping pill. It's okay."

"I'm not lying," Roz said. "After you've had some sleep, if you want to see Gene and Jason I'll take you whenever you want to go."

Sarah ended up in Jason's room. She lay on the bed and pressed her face to the pillow as Roz brought the comforter up over her. "I'll leave the lights on," Roz said, and waited until Sarah had dozed off before she slipped out. She kept the door open a bit.

Greg came home an hour or so later. He looked tired and irritable, but accepted Roz's kiss and embrace. They stood there for a while, and took comfort in each other's presence.

"How is she?" he asked as he ate dinner at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Roz hung the tea towel by the oven and sat next to him.

"She's in shock. She blames herself for this mess." She stole a wedge of fried potato from Greg's plate, dipped it in ketchup and munched. "She's sorry she went off on you."

Greg grunted. "You made her take her meds."

"Yeah, she's sleeping finally." Roz put a hand on his back. "You should head for bed yourself in a while. You've been up over twenty-four hours."

"I'm not some decrepit pile of bones," he said, and gave her an annoyed glance. Roz raised her brows.

"Did I say you were?" She leaned in to kiss him. "I'm sleeping on the couch tonight in case Sarah needs me, but maybe we could fool around in the morning before you leave for work."

Greg studied her. A faint amusement stole into his regard. After a moment a corner of his mouth twitched. "I like the way you think."

"Good to know." She kissed him again and snitched another home fry before she went off to check on Sarah, and get a pillow and blanket for the couch.


	19. Chapter 19

_February 3rd_

Jason swung his legs around with care so that he sat on the edge of his bed. His shoulder hurt a little but it wasn't a sharp pain now, more an achy one, and itchy too. He hated the sling he had to wear, he hated to wear his pajamas all day, he hated to be poked and prodded and take meds every time he turned around. The antibiotics were the worst—'horse pills', Dad called them; they gave him rumbly belly and tasted disgusting. He wanted nothing more than to go home.

"We might be able to turn you loose this weekend," Doctor Wirth had said when she'd examined him that morning. "We'll see how you do in PT. You're healing nicely, but I want to make sure you're ready."

Jason rose to his feet slow and careful. He had to pay attention to the first few steps because his balance was off a bit still, but after that he could move around pretty well. It was a vast improvement over his initial week in the center, after Rob had operated on him to repair damage and remove some bone chips. At least now he could do something besides watch tv and make short trips to the bathroom. The only good thing about that time was when Dad read to him. They were not quite halfway through _Treasure Island_, and Dad had promised to start another book when that one was done. It was the best way to read Jason had ever found; both Mom and Dad were good readers, they didn't stumble over or struggle with words the way he did, and they brought the story alive in his imagination. He wanted to learn to read like that, and he knew they would help him.

It took him a few minutes to get his robe on, but he managed it and headed out of the ward. Mrs. Faust was there this afternoon; she sat at the nurses station as she entered data into the chart program. As he passed by she looked up and smiled at him. "Hey Jason," she said. "Don't go too far, okay? Doctor Chase will be by in a little while to check on you."

He nodded and continued his path out of the ward, headed for the ER bays. Doctor Singh or maybe Doctor Chandler would be there for their clinic hours. Jason hoped it was Singh. He wasn't quite sure yet whether Chandler liked him or not, though she hadn't been nasty or mean. She seemed to reserve judgment, a phrase he'd heard various grownups use in the past.

To his surprise he found Doctor House in the bay on the far right. He constructed what looked like an ice-fishing shack, made with tongue depressors and paper tape. He glanced up at Jason, his bright eyes keen and assessing, but said nothing.

"Where's Doctor Singh?" Jason asked, and sat on a rolling stool.

"Where he should be, administering a test to a new patient," House said. "With great reluctance, I'm taking his hours for a larger purpose."

"What purpose?" Jason asked, intrigued.

"He'll owe me big time." House held up a tongue depressor. "'Isn't it good/Norwegian wood'," he sang softly, and placed a piece of tape on the stick. "You're supposed to be waiting for Chase to look you over and send you packing."

"In a little while," Jason said. "Your roof's gonna fall off."

"No it won't."

"Yeah it will," Jason said. "The angle's wrong, it's too steep."

"Pfft. Everyone's an armchair engineer," House said. "Make your own if you're so smart."

Jason moved the rolling stool over to the box of tongue depressors. He wasn't sure how he could construct anything with only one free arm, but it would be interesting to try. He'd built a floor and was had put tape on a second stick to make a wall when House said "You know your biological father is dead."

Jason nodded. They'd told him a few days ago. He still wasn't sure how he felt about it; the roil of emotions inside him was confusing and unpleasant. He preferred things simple and clean, not complicated and messy. "How did he die?"

"He rolled the truck down the hillside and broke his neck." House placed a stick on the roof and cursed under his breath when it slid off.

"He was drunk." Jason didn't need a confirmation; he'd rarely seen his father sober. "Why did he have to be so stupid?"

"Why ask why, kid. The sky's blue, the sun rises in the east, and people are morons. It's just how things are."

"That's a bullshit answer," Jason dared to use a forbidden word because he knew House wouldn't care. He stuck the second stick to the first. "Mom says we have choices. That makes sense to me."

House stuck another depressor on the roof and held it there so it wouldn't fall off. "Your mother's an incurable optimist."

"She used to be," Jason said, more to himself than to House. The older man gave him a sharp look.

"Explain."

"Something's wrong. I mean, some of it's what happened and all, worrying about me and Dad," Jason said. "She's not . . . not her. I don't know how to say it."

House picked up a depressor and stared at it. "Has she been crying? Acting sad or upset?"

Jason studied the structure. "No . . . maybe a little sad, but her voice isn't right. It's too quiet. Usually when she talks it's like she's singing under the words. Now . . . the music isn't there."

After a moment House nodded. "Good way to put it." He set the depressor in place and it slid off. "Damn cheap crap." He tore a large piece of tape off the roll. "I take it she's not talking about what happened."

"Dad tries, but she won't." Jason hesitated. "I don't think she wants to, which doesn't make sense."

"So they're Mom and Dad now. Interesting. Wise choice on your part. They'll be more likely to give you what you want if you work them into feeling all gooey and sentimental inside when you call 'em Ma and Pa." House stuck the tape on the depressor and put it on the roof. It slithered slowly down the side. "It's like this, junior. People don't make sense most of the time. You start expecting them to, you'll be miserable. Trust me on this."

"So why do they decide to do things that hurt them? It's just as easy to be smart," Jason said. He chose another stick when the second one stayed upright.

"Spoken with exactly the right amount of naïve inexperience I'd expect from a bright kid your age, which is pretty amazing when you think about it." House paused. "There isn't enough time in the world to explain all the ramifications, rationalizations and other five-dollar words associated with that question," he said finally. "A great mind summed it up best when he wrote 'the two most abundant substances in the universe are hydrogen and stupidity'. You'll understand that principle better when you start dating."

Jason thought of Mandy. She wasn't stupid, far from it; to go out on a date with her would likely be an interesting event. "Maybe."

"Don't expect people to be anything other than who and what they are and you'll avoid all sorts of terrible, awful, heart-rending misunderstandings," House said. "Not to mention extraneous lawsuits and paternity tests. And speaking of entertaining hijinks, Chase just came in with your get out of jail free card. That means you can stop pestering me while I'm attempting to do God's good work by using up Wirth's supplies."

Jason got to his feet. He put a tongue depressor by House's hand. "Tape this wide side up on top of the back wall. It'll change the angle of the roof so it won't fall off," he said, and left.

"One more day," Rob said after a thorough exam. He chuckled at Jason's groan. "Yeah, I know. But better safe than sorry." He stuffed his stethoscope in a pocket and offered a grin. "Let's go to the lounge and watch a movie."

They were half an hour into _Die Hard_, as they munched tortilla chips and argued over who did better explosions, Hollywood or Tokyo, when Sarah said from the doorway "Is this a private club or can anyone join?"

"Come on in," Rob said. She obeyed and perched on a seat next to Jason. He took her hand in his, glad of her presence. She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.

"So what's the verdict?" she asked.

"I can come home tomorrow," Jason said. Sarah loosed her hold and put her arm around him, careful of his shoulder.

"That's great!" She kissed his cheek. Jason rolled his eyes but he really didn't mind. Chase smiled at them both and checked his watch.

"Time for me to get back to work," he said. "See you tomorrow with your discharge papers. Cheers," and he slipped out of the room.

"Where's Dad?" Jason asked. He snuggled into Sarah's side and rested his head on her shoulder.

"He's consulting with Greg's team. He'll be in a little later. We thought we'd have pizza for dinner if that sounds good. Gene will pick it up. You just need to call Grandpa Lou and tell him what kind of toppings you want."

"Sick," Jason said. His stomach growled at the thought. Sarah chuckled.

"Bottomless pit," she said, and kissed the top of his head.

"Mom," he said after a few moments, "can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, sweetheart," she said.

"Why did my father hurt us?"

Sarah didn't answer right away. "I don't know for sure," she said slowly. "But it seems to me he was trying to keep his family together. He saw Gene and me as a threat."

"But he shot me too," Jason said. The shock of that moment, the look on his father's face, was still very clear. He didn't think he'd ever forget it; it haunted him at night, the whole sequence of events: the shot and and his entry into the main room to find Dad against the wall, his father with the gun raised, the sheer force of the bullet as it flung him off his feet like a hard punch, his father's muddled horror. "If he wanted me back, why did he do that?"

"I believe he wasn't thinking clearly—"

"He was drunk," Jason said.

"Yes, but he was also confused in his heart long before that night," Sarah said. "I think no one ever showed your father how to love and be loved, and so he didn't know what to do with the love he felt for you. It got twisted into something dark."

"That makes no sense," Jason said. "He hurt me all the time."

"I know. Humans rarely behave in rational ways," Sarah said, an echo of what House had told him earlier. "All we can do is try to understand even when people hurt us. It isn't easy, especially when they make us angry."

"You tried to stop him," Jason said. "I remember seeing you with your hands around his neck."

Sarah said nothing at first. "It was wrong of me to do that," she said. She sounded troubled, sad.

"No it wasn't!" He lifted his head to look into her eyes. "It _wasn't_!"

"I wanted to kill him," she said quietly. "I reacted and didn't think through my actions. He needed my help and I hurt him even more."

"Mom . . ." Jason gave her an awkward hug, distressed by the pain and grief he saw in her face. "It's okay that you did what you did. He tried to take me away and he hurt you and Dad. You were just protecting us."

She leaned into him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "_M'chridhe_," she said after a while. "That means a lot. Thank you."

They sat there for a little while, content to be close. He'd completely lost his anxiety at her touch; it meant comfort and protection, he knew that now without doubt. He soaked up her warmth; it acted to calm the seething thoughts penned at the back of his mind.

"Don't you two look cute," House said from the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb and gave Sarah a level stare. "I heard you mention pizza."

"You did," Sarah said. She smiled at him. "I was about to ask what Jason wanted on it. You plan to have some with us?"

"I plan to eat enough to make my wife really mad when I come home and can't do her supper justice," House said. "So give us the verdict, yard ape."

"Double cheese, pepperoni, sausage and ham," Jason said.

"What he said." House straightened. "Customers, gotta go."

Sarah chuckled softly. "My two carnivores. Okay, double cheese and a ton of pig meat comin' up. I say we add a double order of fries and onion rings as well. If we're gonna do in our arteries, might as well go out in style."

"And a fountain Coke!" House yelled from the corridor.

"And a fountain Coke," Sarah said. She smiled just a little. "I'll call Dad and he'll bring it over. How about a movie too?"

They walked back down the ward together. "Your room is waiting for you," Sarah said. "I changed the sheets on the bed but left everything else."

"Even my laundry?" Jason said, disappointed. Sarah smiled.

"No, I picked it up for you this time. I'll do it tomorrow. Once you've healed up enough though, no scamming me to do your chores, buster."

Jason nodded. He knew she meant it and didn't mean it at the same time. "Yeah, okay."

By the time they reached his room he was tired and hurting. The bed felt good for once. Sarah helped him in. "How about a little nap before Dad comes over?" She brought the covers up and put the call bell by his good hand. "How's your shoulder?"

"It's okay," he said, though it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. "You'll wake me? Maybe we could read later."

"Yes to both," she said, and kissed his temple. She stroked his hair and he closed his eyes, eased in her gentle touch. He turned his face toward her and slipped into sleep, secure in the knowledge he was known, loved and safe.


	20. Chapter 20

_February 6th_

". . . and so here I am, talking to you," Sarah said. She sat curled up on the couch, and watched the fire dance and flicker. "In one piece, more or less."

"That's as may be," Gordon said. "I thank you for telling me what happened. Now I want you to tell me what _happened_."

Sarah sighed. "I don't . . . I don't know if I can."

"Tut tut. We shan't attempt to eat the entire elephant in one sitting, as you well know. This is the first of many conversations." Gordon was silent a moment. "It seems to me you're looking at what happened from an angle so oblique you're missing some of the details."

Sarah wrapped an arm around her middle and held on tight. "Such as?"

"Your husband and foster son telling me you're sitting alone in the dark far too often since everyone's home."

"I don't—"

"That isn't meant to be taken literally, my dear girl. You understand metaphors perfectly well," Gordon said. "You're not singing or practicing that very charming mandolin, you haven't put in your seed order yet, and you've ignored a very generous offer by Doctor Wirth to set up practice in her shop, so to speak. Not to mention consulting with Doctor House—"

"All right, I get it!"

There was a pause. "Stroppy." It was said in the mildest of tones. Sarah sighed.

"Sorry—I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. I see the sticking point. You're wearing the guise of therapist. You must remove it and put on another-that of patient."

Sarah said nothing. He was right, but just the idea of it held a fear so profound she could scarcely draw breath.

"You're about to piss yourself out of sheer terror, aren't you," Gordon said. He exhaled softly. "Very well, let's go down the list. What's going on in that amazing and complex mind of yours? Or in the vernacular, what has you so het up?"

"Loss of control," she said finally, and hated every word.

"Good—that's good. Why do you say that?"

"It's easier to be the one dispensing advice than it is to be the one taking it."

"I suppose that's a sly dig at me," Gordon said dryly. Sarah couldn't help but smile.

"Well—maybe a little."

"Honesty, so refreshing. All right, what else?"

"It means . . . it means I have a lot of work ahead, and that scares me," she said in a rush. "I don't want to work on things. It's gonna hurt. I've already been through this."

"Yes indeed, you have been through this, as you put it. And you know quite well healing isn't a static quality." Gordon snorted softly. "Americans. You think you deal with something once and you're done. Layers, my dear, layers. Like the proverbial onion."

"I know." Sarah stared at the flames in the fireplace. "Okay . . . okay."

"Very well. You start us off. And if you would, sweet girl, keep in mind the words of Charles Fort: 'the fate of all explanation is to close one door only to have another fly wide open'."

She took a deep breath. "Yes." A memory came up, and she spoke before her internal censors could stop her. "This experience . . . not all of it was unfamiliar territory." The hazy recall of her father in the kitchen with a shotgun took her breath away.

"I'm listening," Gordon said softly. "Remember, you're here and not there."

Sarah fought panic, took a breath. "I . . . I know."

"Very good. All right, tell me what happened. We'll close our eyes and take it slow and gentle while we both think of England."

[H]

Greg moves down the steps. The lights are off downstairs but there's a big fire ablaze in the fireplace. It sends warm flickers of light around the room, warm and welcoming. He pauses on the last step, shifts the guitar to his other hand, and enters the battle arena ready to go.

Sarah is curled up on the couch in front of the fire. The cordless phone is still in her hand. There are tear tracks on her face, he can see them glimmer in the soft light. He stands there for a bit and just watches her. Then he comes into the room, makes enough noise and moves so Sarah sees him clearly. She sits up as he takes his usual place in his favorite easy chair, and props the guitar against his legs.

"The King Biscuit Flower Hour of Angst done and over with?" he says, and knows he sounds disgustingly cheerful.

"Two hours," Sarah says. She looks wiped out, disheartened. Even her curls droop.

"Ouch." Greg sits back a bit. "That's tough. Time for the next session."

Sarah glances at the guitar, then away. "I don't feel like playing."

"Didn't ask if you did." He picks up the instrument and starts to tune. "Go find something with frets and bring it back here. And while you're at it, grab me a beer."

She gives him a hard look, but he's pleased to see her slowly rise from the couch. A few minutes later she returns with the six-string and a beer, the cap still on.

"Open it for me," he says. Sarah gives him another look. She sets the bottle by his foot with a thump that guarantees he won't be popping the top anytime soon.

"Screw you," she says with a faint asperity that makes him smile; she's still herself under all that pain. "Do it yourself."

Greg sits back. "Okay," he says mildly. "What do you want to play?"

"This is your gig. You start."

"Uh uh. You go first."

Sarah gives an exasperated sigh. "You are the original goddamn pain in the ass, you know that?"

"Hah, I've never heard _that_ one before." He fixes her with a steely glare. "Play."

She strums the open strings and tunes them while he opens his beer with caution. "There's an old song my grandmother used to sing . . . I've been hearing it over and over again in my head." She picks a simple chord and begins to sing. Greg listens to Sarah's clear, soft voice tell the story of the woman who killed her baby and was hung for it. She knows it well; it must come from a time early on in her childhood and she probably heard it often, because she sings it straight from the heart. At the end she finishes and falls silent.

"Cheerful," Greg says finally.

"Grandma told me the song came from the black '47—the potato famine in Ireland. The woman's baby was starving, so she killed it and was killed in turn. I don't know if that's true but it's possible." Sarah stares into the fire. "I know this will sound strange, but . . . it feels good to sing it."

"Not strange at all," Greg says. "You almost lost your family. And your people love to sing about bad times. I haven't met a Celt yet who wasn't superstitious to the highest degree and gloomy with it."

Sarah nods. "True. Your turn."

He's already got a song in mind so he picks the opening chord and starts the verse. It isn't often he sings in front of other people, but he knows Sarah needs the words.

_life is a one-way ticket_

_ain't no second time around_

_life is a one-way ticket, baby_

_and there ain't no second time around_

_so you better get all you can out of life_

_before you six feet underground _

She listens to the words, doesn't join in, though she knows the song; just listens, her pale face turned toward the fire. Greg can see clearly now the terrible wound in her soul, and it scares him. It isn't clean or surgical; it's a laceration, jagged and messy and infected, an old scar reopened by blunt force. She's in great pain, her heart broken and in need of a long, slow and thorough convalescence.

For a moment the sheer size of the emotional investment required staggers him. He hasn't dealt with anything this huge since Wilson lost Amber. His collection of healing tools is pathetic by comparison; he really shouldn't even attempt to help. She's got the Brit after all. And yet . . . he remembers once more that moment in the yard at Mayfield, her touch on his arm—ephemeral as the brush of a butterfly's wing, but the best comfort and reassurance he'd ever received, given freely and with real affection. She has stayed with him through the worst times he's known in a lifetime full of misery, and never considered it more than he was worth or a burden to her, though he knows both counts are true.

So he continues the song, and when it's done he just strums the chords, and watches her.

"You don't have to do this," Sarah says after a while. She sounds so tired.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "But you'll owe me big time. How can I resist the siren call of potential extortion and blackmail?"

She looks at him then, and after a moment she smiles just a little. "Thanks," she says.

"Sure, you say that now," he says. "Your turn."

She takes her time, but after a while she starts to play. It's 'Sleepwalk', slow and soft, layered with pain and sadness, bittersweet. Greg listens to the music as it steals through the room. Even though she is mourning what's happened, there is beauty in the depth and honesty of her emotion. When his own heart responds he knows he can let it do so without fear of rejection or ridicule. That is the great gift she has given him, and it has made all the difference.

They play well into the small hours, as the fire dies down and the shadows lengthen. Talk isn't necessary now; the music speaks for them. And when at last it ends, when they set the instruments aside and get to their feet, Sarah comes to him and enfolds him in her embrace. She doesn't say anything, she just holds him and rests her cheek against his chest.

"Thank god for you," she says, and means every word. Greg can't help but roll his eyes, embarrassed.

"That's about the last sentiment I'd ever expect from anyone who knows me," he says.

"The ones who didn't say it don't know you," she says, and there are tears in her voice now. "I love you, son."

When he goes upstairs a short time later, Roz wakes as he enters the room. "Hey," she says while he climbs into the bed. "You okay?"

Greg brings the covers up over them and wraps an arm around his wife, snuggles with her spoon-fashion. He buries his nose in her soft hair. "Yeah," he says, and gives her a kiss as he closes his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine."


	21. Chapter 21

_February 14th_

Roz pulled the truck into the driveway and shut off the motor. Never had she been so glad to get home, even if it was just for a quick check on the house before she went off to Sarah and Gene's place; her day had come straight from the black gates of hell itself, and she had a headache from teeth clenched to hold in the scream stuck at the back of her throat. She sat there for a few moments, watched fat flakes fall around her as warmth slowly leaked from the cab. At last she got out. Snow squeaked underfoot as she trudged to the kitchen door.

Roz's heart wilted a little at the thought of Greg's late hours at the clinic tonight. While she'd known for some time that holidays like Valentine's were at the bottom of the priority list for her husband, she still held a faint hope that maybe they could at least share some supper together. Since they'd stayed at Gene and Sarah's they'd seen less of each other than usual, a happenstance more attributable to luck than deliberate choice on their part. The two new patients at the clinic had everyone at work on answers, as well as on call at all hours. Of course that meant Greg was gone quite a bit, even with his tendency to play hooky any chance he got.

The kitchen was warm, but Roz missed Hellboy's usual greeting; the Heebster was still at the Goldmans, no doubt spoiled rotten as he soaked up the attention lavished on him by everyone. She took off her jacket and walked over to hang it in its usual spot, only to pause. A brightly colored piece of paper was stuck to the hook. She took it in hand and found it was a Post-it note folded in half. When she opened it, Greg's bold writing flashed up at her.

_wash your hands, then take ten paces northeast_

A reluctant smile touched her lips. She put the jacket on the hook and washed at the sink, turned in the correct direction and measured off her steps, though she knew where she would end up—at the kitchen table. Her laptop faced her. Another bright note sat atop the lid.

_open me wide and turn me on, baby_

Roz's smile grew. She lifted the lid and booted the computer. After the welcome finished yet another note showed up, this time on the screen.

_click me _

She did so. A second note popped up.

_ooohh! aaahh! again woman! do it again!_

Laughing, she obeyed. After a moment music began to play. As Roz listened, her amusement turned to delight.

_It was late last night_

_I was feeling something wasn't right_

_there was not another soul in sight_

_only you only you_

_so we walked along_

_though I knew that there was something wrong_

_and a feeling hit me oh so strong about you_

_then you gazed up at me and the answer was plain to see_

_'cause I saw the light in your eyes_

Last night he'd kissed her eyelids as she lay drowsing, on her way into sleep. Now she understood the gesture; what made it even more powerful for her was the knowledge he'd chosen music she liked. It warmed her like sunlight, strong and sweet.

_Though we had our fling_

_I just never would suspect a thing_

_'til that little bell began to ring in my head in my head_

_but I tried to run_

_though I knew it wouldn't help me none_

_'cause I couldn't ever love no one or so I said_

_but my feelings for you_

_were just something I never knew_

_'til I saw the light in your eyes_

She remembered his proposal, the way his hands had held hers, warm and gentle with just a little tremor in them; the way he'd spoken, and his urgent conviction had matched her desire for him.

_but I love you best_

_it's not something that I say in jest _

_'cause you're different girl from all the rest_

_in my eyes_

_and I ran out before but I won't do it anymore_

_can't you see the light in my eyes_

When the song ended a note came up on the screen:

_twenty-two paces east_

Roz headed for the bedroom, careful to count off the steps. If Greg wrote twenty-two, that was exactly what he meant. She ended up in front of the door and one more note:

_I love to swing so make me happy_

She obeyed and opened the door, to stop by the bed in surprised pleasure. Two outfits lay side by side, both new to her. One was a silk sweater the color of deep topaz, with a pair of black slacks; the other was a teddy with a matching lacy robe in soft peridot-green. Roz looked at them for a few moments. Then she reached out and stroked the teddy. It warmed to her touch- real silk, just like the sweater. She thought of Greg, his hands on her as he slid the straps from her shoulders . . . She started to pick it up and a note tumbled onto the bed. Roz unfolded it.

_no, this is for LATER—pack it up to take with you, get changed into the other outfit and meet me at Lou's in half an hour_

Oh, he knew her so well . . . and she loved him even more for it. Roz glanced down at herself, at the shabby jumpsuit and old tee shirt and jeans under it. She started to undress, hummed softly under her breath, and couldn't keep from smiling.

[H]

She comes in in right on time just as he knew she would, his practical-down-to-her-toenails woman. Her hair is dusted with snow, but it doesn't detract from her beauty—not for him anyway. She leans in to kiss her grandfather's cheek and give Sarah a hug, then turns and makes her way to him. He gets to his feet and watches her, sees how an inner joy warms and softens her dark, sardonic features, and knows he's done exactly the right thing to take an evening and spend it with her.

"Hello, _amante_," she says softly. Her kiss is tender; her soft cap of hair brushes his cheek. Greg breathes in the scent of her, musky and clean with echoes of lavender and flowers from her soap. He steals another kiss, enjoys the way her eyes close in pleasure. They stand there together, oblivious to the bustle of people around them, and hold each other close. And so of course his phone rings.

They get situated while Greg listens to his team over speaker phone as they argue for various diseases, until he says "None of you has the slightest idea what the hell you're talking about. Call me back when you have a clue. Just make sure it's tomorrow. Any earlier and I'll hang all three of you by your balls, and that includes Chandler." He ends the call, but when he starts to turn off the phone Roz puts her hand over his.

"No," she says quietly. "It's all right. Leave it on."

She understands, and she's okay with what has to be. The knowledge eases his uncertainty over the success of this whole idea, just as Sarah comes up to the table. She looks a bit less subdued today, though her sea-green eyes are shadowed. "Hey you two," she says. "Ready for the _antipasto_?"

"Bring it on," Greg says, and takes pride in Roz's delight at his surprise. No pizza and Coke for them tonight; Lou's agreed to a four-course dinner complete with wine. God knows how he's managed it along with the usual business he gets on a Tuesday night, but that's his problem. Greg's only interested in the result, and since he knows his father-in-law's talent in the kitchen, it'll be a dinner to remember.

They start off with _spiedini de albicocca al prosciutto crudo_, dried apricots ("soaked in Italian brandy, it's something only Poppi does," Roz tells him) wrapped in Parma ham on little rosemary skewers. There is a bottle of white wine on the table. "Verdicchio Classico Riserva le Giuncare Monte Shiavo," Roz says. "The '05 is pretty good and it was on sale, so we bought a couple of cases."

'Pretty good' is an understatement. It's unoaked, clean as fresh linen and not sweet at all, with hints of lemon and sea air. It banishes the snow and cold in plentiful evidence outside their window like a ray of Italian sunshine. Greg sips the wine and watches Roz eat an apricot. The dull gold of her new sweater brings out the highlights in her sable hair. She looks like a burnished idol, her green eyes full of secrets. He can't wait to follow her to their bedroom at Gene and Sarah's place and ravish every inch of her.

"You know, we are in a public restaurant," Roz says, and slants a sly glance at him full of humor and desire. "I want you too," she whispers, and offers him the other half of her apricot. He leans forward and takes a bite. It's delicious, sweet and salty with hints of rosemary and aged oak from the brandy. The kiss he steals tastes of it too, and of her.

The next course is salad—_bagna cauda_ with winter vegetables. "Poppi's having fun," Roz says. "This is his grandmother's recipe, and she got it from her grandmother. He doesn't make it very often, so it's a big honor to have it tonight."

Greg has to agree. The sauce is not thick and greasy; it's the texture of thin custard, delicate and yet pungent with a nice hit of acidity from white wine vinegar, and packed with flavor from the whole milk, anchovies, garlic and olive oil used to make it. The Romanesco broccoli, cauliflower, new carrots, and radishes have all been blanched but are still crisp. The contrast between the warm, silky-smooth sauce and the crunch of the vegetables is a delight.

"You start making this, I'll eat more green stuff," Greg says, and Roz laughs softly.

"And jack your cholesterol sky-high too." She puts her hand over his for a moment. The little chip diamond in her engagement ring winks and flashes. "Maybe now and then. I like it best on new beets, but Poppi didn't put them in tonight because they're too messy."

_Coniglio con le cipolle, _rabbit with onions, is the main dish. Simple and not at all spicy, the meat is tender and juicy, browned to perfection with a wonderful crispy crust of _pancetta_, garlic, sage and olive oil minced into a rough paste, and served with whole small onions cooked in the pan juices. There are crusty fresh rolls and a fine red wine to go with it: Famiglia Anselma Barolo.

"From the Piedmont," Roz says. It tastes like juicy ripe blackberries, with a delicious smooth tannic kick to balance the sweetness. It complements the dish beautifully, brings out the smokiness of the _pancetta_ and the browned onions and meat.

At one point Lou comes by their table to spend a few minutes. He pours a little wine and sips it between brief comments. "It isn't often I get a chance to make something besides pizza and _calzone_," he says. "Hope you like the menu."

"If it weren't for the fact that we're snowbound in the southern Adirondacks, we could be in Italy," Greg says. It's a snarky remark, but he softens it a bit with honesty. The older man's dark features brighten with quiet pride, mirrored in Roz's face as she smiles; the resemblance between them is strong. It's still so strange to realize he's part of this little family. He's never belonged anywhere at any time in his life, never been wanted as a member of any group, and now he's got people who view him as foster son, son-in-law, husband, and most incredible of all, friend. He resists the temptation to pinch himself and says instead "So what's for afters?"

Dessert is _panna cotta_, served with a warm compote of winter apples and dried figs in a _prosecco_ base. There's toasted black pepper and vanilla bean flecks in the cream, a perfect complement to the natural sweetness of the fruit and liqueur.

"You've got this recipe, right?" Greg says, as he envisions a large helping of this delicacy in his own home.

"Of course." Roz kisses his cheek. "I'll make it for you, _amante_, you have my promise."

They linger over cups of espresso and a little dish of dark chocolate truffles shared between them, while they talk idly of events of the day. Around them the bustle of a busy night goes on—parents with noisy kids, pizza and burgers and platters carried out of the kitchen in a steady stream, people coming and going—but he and his wife sit in a small bubble of peacefulness, just the two of them. Roz holds his hand in hers, her slender, work-worn fingers gentle. It should set him on edge, all this intimacy. Instead he finds himself open to it; not without some trepidation, true, but he's willing to take the risk because she's worth it. He hasn't felt this way since before the blood clot. A part of him is still aghast at his recklessness, but right now, in this moment, he simply doesn't care.

At last it's time to go. They stop on the way out to thank Lou—well, Roz does, but she speaks for Greg too though he'd never admit it—and then they walk through the endless snow to their respective vehicles. Roz escorts him to Barbarella. Before he opens the door she gives him a kiss so scorching-hot it ought to melt every snowbank in a fifty yard radius.

"Drive safe," she whispers against his lips. "I'll never forgive you if you end up in a ditch."

"Kiss me like that again and I can't be held responsible for the consequences," he says. She grins at him, her dimples flash, and then she's headed off to her truck.

[H]

Roz pulled into the driveway. Greg had managed to beat her here; no doubt he'd floored it on some back stretch she was unwilling to use because of the road conditions. He was a risk taker, she'd always known that . . . _I don't know whether to kiss him for his eagerness or smack his face for being an idiot_, she thought. With a sigh she put the truck in park and turned off the motor, picked up her purse and the bag with her new lingerie, then went inside.

It was quiet in the main room. Greg was nowhere to be seen. Roz hung up her coat and scarf and went into the downstairs bathroom. It took only a few minutes to wash up a bit, brush her teeth, remove her clothes and put on the silk teddy and robe. It lay soft as mist against her skin, and rustled faintly as she moved. She took a wet comb to her hair, smoothed it carefully here and there. When she'd done the best she could to look presentable she reached into her purse and brought out the little bottle of essential oil that served as her perfume. She dabbed a bit on pulse points and behind her ears—just enough to create scent but not drown out everything else—and made her way upstairs in near silence.

The door to their room was slightly ajar. Roz eased it open and slipped inside. Greg stood in front of the fire, stirring the embers before adding another log. He wore the bathrobe she and Sarah had made for him, his hair ruffled a bit. At her entrance he straightened and faced her. They stood a few feet apart. The flickering light played over his impassive features, but she saw the desire in his eyes, the way his throat moved as he swallowed. Emboldened by this response, she walked forward until she was only a breath away.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said softly. His gaze searched her features, bright and questioning. After a moment he put his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to kiss her. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to him, made the surrender obvious. He deepened the kiss; his tongue touched hers, stroked her palate. His hands slid down her arms, caught her wrists gently. She didn't resist. Her husband was a man keenly aware of all his senses. Despite his reticence and barriers in everyday life, when he put his mind to it he could use that awareness in ways that always surprised and delighted her.

The kiss ended. He drew her toward the bed and released her hands so he could slip the robe from her shoulders, as his lips nuzzled her temple. The silk floated to the floor in a shimmering heap at her feet. She shivered, but not with cold. Impatient now, she undid the tie on his robe. It fell open to reveal the start of an impressive erection, as well as the great scar on his right thigh. His gaze moved away from hers, but she caught his face gently and held it until he looked at her again, his reluctance plain. The uncertainty and apprehension she saw there made her heart ache. After all this time, he was still afraid of her reaction to what he considered an unredeemable flaw. With gentle deliberation she placed her left hand atop the scar. The ridges and gullies were warm under her palm. She felt the new muscles there bunch and tense, ready for flight, and knew a fierce happiness at the return of what had been taken away so many years ago, even while his instinctive reaction saddened her.

"Beautiful man," she said, and meant it. She loved everything about him, from his bald spot to his long, narrow feet; it was all a part of him, same as the little rumble in his deep voice, his biting sense of humor, the way his smile quirked to one side, the line between his brows, the child-like way he delighted in small pleasures, his deep sense of justice, the calluses on his fingers, and above all his brilliant, restless mind. She had been given the truly humbling privilege to catch occasional glimpses into that mind—to see the pure, wordless worship of beauty in all its forms but most especially music, the encyclopedic grasp of details large and small, the processes he used to find truth and order in deception and chaos, the powerful emotions he feared would overwhelm him; she accepted all of it, because it made him who he was-flawed and difficult, yes, but a man worth loving. She knew others often saw only the prickly armor he wore to keep them away. She knew him better, and was thankful she did. His presence in her life was the finest gift she'd ever been given.

His fear faded as he took in what she'd said; his big hands rubbed her arms in a slow, tentative way. She shifted her focus from the scar to his erection, and smiled as he gave a soft gasp when she began to work him. His eyes darkened, focused on her. Long fingers trailed over her skin to stroke her belly, slid lower to find the little knot that pulsed and throbbed between her thighs. She moaned and pressed her body to his.

And then they fell together, a slow, sweet tumble to the bed. Greg eased the straps of the teddy from her shoulders to expose her breasts. He tugged the silk over her hips. She wriggled out of the garment and pushed it aside, held his head to her as he suckled first one nipple and then the other. His teeth tugged gently to make heat grow in her belly, and his scruff brushed her skin so that she trembled as she held him.

They took their time; while he was no longer on narcotics, the damage from years of opiate use was still present. Roz knew it often annoyed him that he required a fairly lengthy session of foreplay before he was ready for actual intercourse, but for her it was no difficulty at all. She reveled in the chance to explore his body and bring him pleasure through her touch, her closeness. Tonight was no exception; she stroked the spring of his ribs, held his hips and tasted him, her tongue tracing the line between his pectorals over his diaphragm to his abdomen. She followed the natural course provided for her by his erection, and enjoyed in his soft anguished groan as she tickled the velvety underside of his glans.

"Mmmm . . . _salato_," she whispered, and kissed him there, made it a teasing brush of her lips.

"_Si marmocchio_," he growled. With care he eased her on her back and moved over her. Roz opened to him without hesitation, lifted her hips to give him better access. He slid inside her slow and firm, his gaze tender as she began to match his rhythm. She loved these moments best, when the last of his masks fell away and he showed her his true self, diamond-bright and vulnerable, to reach out for her when his release took him. He brought her with him as he always did, held her as she shuddered and moaned and clung to him, awash in sweetness.

They lay in each other's arms for a long time after, content to be close in the soft semi-darkness. "You spoil me," Roz said after a while. Greg chuckled.

"Most wives would be furious at the lack of bling."

"You've already given me diamonds," she said. "I love them, but I don't need more." She put her head to his chest, felt the steady thump of his heart under her cheek. "Tonight was perfect, _amante_. Thank you."

"You won't say that when you have to get up in a few hours and go to work," he said. He played with a lock of her hair.

"I'm taking tomorrow off so I can sleep in with you," she said.

"Yeah?" His arm around her waist tightened gently. "Bad girl, playing hooky for no good reason. I like it," he whispered. He cupped her breast, and his thumb brushed her nipple. She heard the pleased approval in his voice under the soft mockery and smiled. She snuggled closer to him.

"I have a perfectly good reason," she said. "I want to spend time with you. We haven't been together much since we came here. I miss you," she said simply. His embrace tightened gently.

"Miss you too," he said. There was reluctance in his words, but she understood why. She drifted into sleep, aware at some point Greg had brought the covers up over them both before he kissed her, his breath warm against her skin.

_February 15th_

He wakes up by degrees, aware that he's alone in the bed. With reluctance he cracks open an eye. There's cold pale light sidling into the room from the window, but it's defeated by the glow of the fire blazing in the fireplace. It sends welcome warmth his way. Slowly he draws breath and gives a cautious stretch, pleased to find only a little soreness waiting besides the usual creaks and pops created by age and a cold morning. As he moves his hand over Roz's pillow to see if the cotton case is still warm, he encounters a box. It's substantial, with a smooth, cool exterior. Intrigued now, Greg rolls on his side to examine this mystery. Roz's mp3 player is draped over the pillow in front of the box with a little note attached to it. With a snort of amusement he opens it.

_play me first, amante_

When he complies, the song that rumbles out is vintage Bruce:

_Well now you may think I'm foolish  
>for the foolish things I do<br>you may wonder how come I love you  
>when you get on my nerves like you do<br>well baby you know you bug me  
>there ain't no secret 'bout that<br>well come on over here and hug me  
>baby I'll spill the facts<br>well honey it ain't your money  
>'cause baby I got plenty of that<em>

_I love you for your pink Cadillac  
>crushed velvet seats<br>ridin' in the back  
>oozin' down the street<br>wavin' to the girls  
>feelin' out of sight<br>spendin' all my money  
>on a Saturday night<br>honey I just wonder what you do there in the back  
>of your pink Cadillac<br>pink Cadillac_

He laughs aloud and picks up the box. It's black with a soft matte finish, the hook latch and hinges silver. He opens it to find a small object nestled inside a velvet interior. It's made from chrome, with a glass tube seated in the metal cylinder. Inside the sealed tube are crystals in solution, visible through an oval window cut in the holder. It's a Weems storm-glass, a replica of the one used on the _HMS Beagle_ during Darwin's voyage to the Galapagos Islands. He'd seen it in a catalog some time ago and admired it; she remembered, and here it is.

"Nice," he says, delighted. There's chrome mounting hardware with it too. He can hang it in his office by his desk.

_Now some folks say it's too big  
>and uses too much gas<br>some folks say it's too old  
>and that it goes too fast<br>but my love is bigger 'n a Honda  
>yeah, it's bigger 'n a Subaru<br>hey man there's only one thing  
>and one car that'll do<br>anyway we don't have to drive it  
>honey we can park it out in back<br>and have a party in your pink Cadillac_

_crushed velvet seats  
>ridin' in the back<br>oozin' down the street  
>wavin' to the girls<br>feelin' out of sight  
>spendin' all my money<br>on a Saturday night  
>honey I just wonder what it feels like in the back<br>of your pink Cadillac  
>pink Cadillac<em>

[H]

Roz poured cold water into the top of the coffeemaker and set the carafe in place. She hummed softly with Al Green on the CD player, and glanced at the bacon as it sizzled in the skillet. Sarah had taken Jason to school and wasn't back yet; Roz suspected she was involved in yet another meeting with the principal and the police over what had happened with Jason's dad. Both Sarah and Gene wanted the principal replaced, but it would take some doing as Fiddyment was connected with people higher up in the local government. Still, she wouldn't put it past them to eventually throw Nancy out on her ear, and no loss. The woman was an idiot.

She shook her head and then smiled as two long arms stole around her. Big hands cupped her breasts for a moment before they slid to her hips.

"Fryin' up bacon in a pan for your man," Greg murmured. Roz turned to face him. Her smile widened at his rumpled hair and the bags under his eyes.

"Guess I better put some Geritol in your coffee," she teased. He growled and pulled her to him for a long and satisfying kiss.

"You liked your present?" she asked a bit later.

"Mmm." He nuzzled her neck. "Bacon's ready to burn up. So am I."

"Horndog," Roz said on a laugh, but she rescued the skillet and got the eggs ready.

They ate breakfast together, enjoyed their closeness, the quiet house and the music. "Come to the office later. Show up naked, bring lunch," Greg said.

"Yes, no, yes," Roz said, and smiled when he gave a theatrical groan. "Come on, you know McMurphy would lock me out if I arrived in my birthday suit, and blue-with-cold is definitely _not_ my color. But I could wear that beautiful sweater you gave me . . ." She offered the last bite of her bacon. Greg leaned forward and looked into her eyes. His sparkled with amusement and what she knew was love. He took the morsel from her fingers, munched and swallowed.

"Just the sweater—guess I could live with that," he said. Roz rolled her eyes but the laughter inside spread through her, filled her with joy.

"I'll see you at one," she said when he was dressed with backpack in hand at the door. He raised his brows.

"Better bring something good if you're not showing up in the altogether," he said. Before she could answer he bent to give her a kiss that silenced her most effectively. He straightened. "Hah," he said with no little satisfaction, and went out into the sunny morning. Roz watched him go. Her fingers touched her tingling lips. Greg hopped into Barbarella, started the engine, gunned it and peeled out. Snow sprayed everywhere as he fishtailed down the drive and into the lane. After a moment she shut the door and went to the kitchen, and enjoyed the sensation as she floated about two inches above the floor. It was going to be a good, a very good day, and she couldn't wait to share it with her husband.

_salato_—salty

_si marmocchio_—you're a brat

'_I Saw the Light,' Todd Rundgren_

'_Luna Llena,' Jesse Cook_

'_Pink Cadillac,' Bruce Springsteen_

'_Still In Love With You,' Al Green_


	22. Chapter 22

_February 17th_

Gene finished the chapter and closed the book, set it on the nightstand. "That's it for tonight."

"Just a little more?" Jason wheedled. "I want to know what happens next!"

"Jay—"

"It's not a school night. I could stay up for another chapter."

"No, you need to rest. You've worked hard all week and I know you're tired." Gene brought the covers up and put his hand to Jason's temple. "How's the shoulder?"

"It's itchy. Mrs. Fellowes says that's a good thing. We'll have two more PT sessions, then I'm done." Jason settled back against his pillows. "Rob said the sling can come off in another week." He looked up at Gene. "How's _your_ shoulder?"

"Fine," Gene said. "House took the stitches out this afternoon."

"I bet you have a _wicked_ cool scar." The admiration in Jason's tone made Gene's lips turn up in a reluctant smile. "I will too, front _and_ back, just like you, Dad."

Gene tucked a lock of Jason's unruly black waves in place, a lump in his throat. They'd come so close, so close to losing him . . . "Trouble Brothers, that's us. Got your homework done?"

"Yeah, it's finished. Roz helped me with the algebra." A hint of red crept into Jason's cheeks. "She's really nice."

"Yes she is," Gene said. "House thinks so too." He was careful to keep the amusement out of his voice. "So what would you like to do tomorrow? Rob has the day off. We could go into town and see a movie, do some dinner."

"Only if Mom comes with us," Jason said. A stubborn determination shone out of his dark eyes.

"That's up to her," Gene said. He would have to tread carefully here.

"She doesn't do anything. She sits around the house all day and sometimes she cries, I know she does." Jason rested his head against Gene's hand. "She needs our help."

Gene took his time before he answered. "Sarah is working with Doctor Wyatt, Jay. He can help her better than we can right now. But this isn't something you just fix, like taking stitches out. Your mom . . ." He hesitated. "I know she's told you she had a rough childhood." Jason nodded. "She has a lot of scars from those days. What happened with your father broke open some of those old wounds. It's going to take time before they heal again. She has to do it in her own way, son."

"But she's hurting," Jason said.

"I know she is, and I know it's hard to see her like this. All we can do is make sure she understands we love and support her. The rest she has to do herself." Gene leaned in and kissed Jason's forehead. "You can ask her if she wants to come with us tomorrow. If she says no, she says no."

Jason thought about it before answering. "Maybe."

Gene couldn't stop a soft chuckle. That was his boy, honest to a fault . . . most of the time. "Stubborn," he said, and patted Jason's cheek gently before he got to his feet. "Love you, son. Sleep well."

"Love you too Dad. 'night." As Gene turned away he caught Jason's swift glance at the book. No doubt there was a flashlight in the drawer—a handy aid for s read under the covers. Gene hid a smile. What better way to entice a kid to do something than to make it forbidden fruit? He closed the door with just a bit more force than was strictly necessary and headed for the kitchen, to encounter Greg there as he made a sandwich. The older man paused, then continued to spread peanut butter on the thick slice he'd cut from the loaf. "How's the sprout?"

"Getting ready to steal a couple of chapters from the book we're reading," Gene said. Greg snorted.

"Wouldn't be _Fanny Hill_ or _The Story of O_, would it? Just in case I want to borrow it for my wife to read to me. Or maybe some old National Geographics?"

"Nope. He'll find out what porn is soon enough, if he hasn't already," Gene said dryly.

"Never too soon," Greg said. He looked Gene over. "You've lost some weight."

"Flashbacks tend to mess with your appetite," Gene said. Greg nodded. He looked a bit surprised at the honesty, but not put off by it.

"That they do." He slapped another slice of bread atop the first and moved past Gene. "You might entertain the notion of slathering some whipped cream and chocolate sauce on your wife now and then. You need the calories, she needs the nooky."

Gene watched him leave. As Greg went soft-footed by Jason's door he paused. After a moment a transient gleam of light escaped from the narrow gap at the bottom. Greg glanced at Gene. One eyebrow quirked up. Then he turned away to the stairs, climbed slow and steady, to disappear into the darkness at the top.

Gene thought about the last part of the conversation in the kitchen. There was truth in Greg's sarcastic observation; the problem was in the implementation of the idea. Sarah had retreated into herself. He knew it was a natural reaction: as he'd said to Jason, it would take time for her to heal. He could only stand with her to the extent she would allow, and at the moment she stood alone.

When he walked into the living room it was to find Sarah on the couch. She faced the fire, her head resting on her outstretched arm. He could hear music as it issued faintly from her abandoned mp3 player earbuds-something relaxed with a slow jazzy swing; Oscar Peterson, if he had to hazard a guess. A book rested against her legs. Next to it lay a small leatherbound journal, the one he'd given her for Christmas. She glanced over at him. "Hey," she said quietly.

"Hey," he said, and took House's favorite chair, to settle in with a soft sigh.

"Long day?" She sat up a bit.

"Long session with Prof." They'd talked about the nightmares and flashbacks, discussed his own childhood memories and his time in the military, and battled politely over Gene's work schedule. He'd come out of the office with the beginnings of a headache and the knowledge that he'd need a sedative to get him through the night, for the time being at least. "What are you reading?"

"It's an exhibit catalogue." Sarah turned her gaze to the fire. Her red-gold curls sparked in the mellow light. "From the da Vinci tour."

"Refresh my memory," Gene said, and stretched his legs out in front of him.

"_The Adoration of the Magi_," Sarah said. "It's one of da Vinci's early works, probably one of his first real commissions. I know I talked to you about it and probably bored you to death, but if you really don't remember . . ." Gene shook his head. "Okay. Ten years ago or so the Uffizi Gallery wanted to restore the painting and everyone was in an uproar over it, saying it was too delicate and would never survive the process. So they brought in an expert, Doctor Mauritzio Seracini, to do a forensic examination of the work. Along the way he discovered some strange details and postulated a theory about what happened to the painting that still has the art world arguing over whether or not he's right." She was silent a moment. "Through the use of technology he pioneered, he was able to reveal the under-drawing beneath the paint. The beauty of it . . ." She touched the book. "Doctor Seracini's theory is that when the Augustinian brothers who commissioned the altar piece saw what Leonardo had drawn, when they saw the wild, swirling groups of faces and the battle scenes in the background of what was supposed to be a simple picture of the Madonna and Child being worshiped by the three wise men, they refused to accept the work as something they could put in a place of prominence in their church." She smiled slightly. "There's even an elephant. And a possible self-portrait. God, I love Leo for that."

"So what happened?" Gene said when she didn't go on.

"So they dumped the unfinished painting in a wet basement while Leonardo went off to Milan. And then many years later, when he was recognized for the genius he was and his works became famous and even more importantly, worth money, someone remembered there was a da Vinci in the cellar. They brought it out of storage and had some poor shmuck who barely knew how to hold a brush clean it up and paint over it. But they also had him block out the parts they still found offensive. And so the beauty of that original idea has been buried all these centuries under murky brown censorship."

"What made you think of this?" Gene said after a time. Sarah sighed.

"Still working on that," she said. "But . . . it seems like looking back at my life, so many things are hidden. But in my case I can't blame anyone else for covering over what they didn't want to see. I did it myself."

"It's a natural reaction," Gene said. "You had and have your reasons."

"It is, and I did, and still do, yes. And it's wreaked havoc on everything I thought I knew about myself, my work, everything I've ever believed in and accomplished." She stared into the fire, her pale features illuminated by the golden light. "It's time to look at the original drawing, see it all." She glanced at him. "I need to go back to Oklahoma. Just—just a visit—nothing permanent. I can stay with Laynie for a couple of weeks while I—work on things."

Gene said nothing at first. Dread rose up in him like bile. "You're not going alone," he said.

"I have to." He recognized the implacability in her reply and knew they were in for a fight. "You can't protect me, Gene. I have to face this on my own."

"Bullshit," he said. "Don't ask me to let you walk away, Sare. I won't do it."

"We have someone else to consider now," she said. "Jason will need you here."

"So that's it? You're just going to pack up and take off? How can you leave him—us?" he demanded, scared now. "How long would you be gone? Have you even thought about this beyond just deciding to leave? Sarah—"

"Don't you _see_?" She sat up. The fierceness in her silenced him. "To understand what's happened I have to go back to the beginning! Everything depends on this, everything! If I don't—" She stopped. "If I don't," she went on, calmer now, "nothing will change. Something has to, Gene. It has to. I can't go on like this."

He saw it, though he didn't want to. "We'll both go," he said, determined to win the argument.

"You can't come with me, you _know_ you can't. Do you think I want to drag you and Jason into something that could hurt you both even more? This is for me to deal with, not you and not our boy." She wiped her eyes, a quick angry gesture. "I know you think I'm bein' an unreasonable jerk about this but I have my reasons, Gene, damn good ones. And the one at the top of the list is neither you nor Jason gets hurt by me anymore, not over this."

"Sare, you can't guarantee that!" Gene hesitated over what came next, but the impetus to speak was too strong to stop the words. "You'll hurt us by going away."

Sarah bowed her head. "Cheap shot," she said after a moment. Her voice shook.

"Yeah, it was. I'm not apologizing." Gene folded his hands over his belly, though he was anything but relaxed at this point. "You want to face things, face that."

"I'm not backing down," she said finally. "You need to understand this, Michael Eugene. No amount of fighting or emotional blackmail will change my mind. All that will do is cause hard words between us and make things more difficult."

"Your choice," he said, and knew it was a cruel thing to say. She drew in a breath as if he'd hit her. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sare."

"No, you're right," she said. "It is my choice. I'm glad you understand that."

"Have you talked to Prof?" Sarah shook her head. "And you don't plan to, do you?" Her continued silence gave him his answer. "Sarah, you have to talk with him about this."

"What if he agrees with me? What will you do then?"

"I'll . . . I won't like it. Hell, I'll hate him for it most likely. But I'll live with it. That's if he says yes to this, and I have my doubts." Gene looked down at his hands. "I just want you to promise me one thing."

"If I can," Sarah said.

"That you'll come back," he said quietly. There was a long silence. When he dared to lift his gaze, Sarah looked stricken and at the same time, determined.

"Yes," she said. "I promise. Gene, I promise."

When she came to him he opened his arms and took her in. She returned his embrace and lay her head on his good shoulder. She shuddered once, twice. When he touched her face it was wet. He tightened his hold gently. "You're my home," she said finally. "You and Jason, wherever you are, that's where I want to be forever. That will never change, love."

"Okay," he said, and felt the constriction in his chest loosen a little. "Okay."

[H]

Jason closed his door. He held the latch so it wouldn't clunk against the frame when he lowered it. In near silence he retreated to his bed, climbed in and pulled the covers up. Once he had his nest arranged to his liking, he thought about what he'd heard and seen. The sound of two adults fighting was nothing new, but . . . Dad had held Mom like she was something precious, and Mom had cried. To see that had eased the terror their angry voices caused. They still loved each other, though they'd both been really mad. Dad had been scared too, scared that Mom would leave and not come back, and Mom had promised him she wouldn't do that. Only one conclusion possible from that exchange: Mom had left sometime in the past, and hadn't come back. That meant Dad had gone out to find her. The possible outcomes of that event were so complicated it made his head ache.

_If all grownups do this, forget it, _he thought. _I won't ever live with anyone._ It wasn't a new idea by any means, he'd said it every time his mother and father had fought—a daily occurrence in his old home. And yet somehow it didn't ring true anymore.

What really worried him though was when Mom said she would leave. She said she'd come back, but in his experience adults lied so they could do what they wanted. He had to admit he hadn't really seen much evidence of that in this household, but there was always a first time . . . He still wrestled with that dilemma when sleep slipped in and stole him away.

'_Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye', 'Summer Will Come,' Oscar Peterson_


	23. Chapter 23

_February 20th_

"I have to do this, Prof." Sarah folded her arms and glared at the monitor. "Just because Gene ratted me out to you doesn't mean I have to listen." _I'll settle his hash later_, she thought.

Gordon sighed. "Your red-haired temperament is showing, my dear. As is the murderous glint in your eye."

She snorted. "Tough titty."

"Has it ever occurred to that hopelessly passionate mind of yours that perhaps your menfolk are concerned because they love you and fret over your welfare?"

"I can take care of myself," she snapped. She knew her attitude was unreasonable, but after a day spent in argument over various attempts to get her to reconsider her plan, her temper was on the boil and she wasn't particularly worried about politeness.

"That is not in question, as well you know. The item of concern is your choosing to make this decision on your own," Gordon said with some asperity. "Your ultimate goal is quite commendable, but you shouldn't go it alone."

"So I'm supposed to do a consult every time I set foot outside my door?"

"When it involves you going away for protracted periods, yes." Gordon shook his head at her groan of disgust. "Really, Sarah. You're acting like this is a huge imposition, taking others into consideration. For shame. You know better."

"Why can't any of you understand that this is MY decision?" she said in exasperation.

"No one is disputing that. You're being bloody-minded," Gordon said tartly. He paused. "Are my eyes deceiving me, or is that Doctor House standing in the doorway behind you?"

Sarah turned to find Greg on the threshold. She gave him what she hoped was a mean stare. "WHAT?"

Greg raised his brows. "You snarled, mistress?"

"Shut up and come in, if you're coming in!"

Greg stayed where he was. He glanced at the monitor. "How goes the sortie?"

"Good evening, Doctor House," Gordon said. "A bit of reasonable persuasion is needed if you're up for the task, and I do hope you are. I'm thoroughly exhausted by all this emotional hugger-mugger."

Greg narrowed his gaze and turned it on Sarah. He said nothing however, just sauntered the room and shut the door behind him, pulled his old Eames chair over next to hers and lowered into it slowly as he watched her. "Gimme the gist," he said.

"Commendably brief," Gordon said. "We're discussing Sarah's decision to go to Oklahoma—"

"Uh uh," Greg said, and rose. "I don't want any part of that."

"Sit down. I—I need your help." Sarah didn't look at him as she said it. He didn't move.

"Do be seated," Gordon said, impatient but still polite. Greg obeyed, and eyed Sarah as if she was a coiled snake about to strike.

"What kind of help?" he said, his wariness evident.

"I want you to come with me." Sarah said it quickly. Greg's eyes widened.

Gordon passed a hand over his face and sighed. "Sarah, you scheming little _minx_."

"It's a legitimate request," Sarah said.

"More like an order," Greg said. He sat back a bit and looked down his nose at her. His blue eyes glittered like frost. "Why me?"

"You won't try to protect me, you won't be anything less than honest, and you'll finally get a chance to grab Laynie's ass," Sarah said. Greg made a noise that could have been a laugh.

"Interesting reasoning," he said. "I'd buy it if it wasn't almost total bullshit."

"Oh, this ought to be good," Gordon said in apparent bemusement. Greg held up his left hand and folded down all the fingers except the index.

"Point one: there's some truth to what you say, but not completely. You're counting on me to rescue you if the going gets really tough, which it's bound to do." He raised his second finger. "Point two: I have the capacity to be much less than honest when it suits my purposes, as you well know. And that's something else you're going to use to your own advantage." Ring finger joined the other two. "Point three: I do not have a death wish, though it would be a glorious way to go, I'll give you that much."

"Fine then. I'm asking you to come with me because I'd like you to be the one there when the shit hits the fan," Sarah said simply. "How's that for honesty?"

Both men were quiet for a moment. "Well, that's plain enough," Gordon said finally. "Blimey Sarah, I don't know why you even bother to talk with me when you've got the good doctor. The two of you have a considerable rapport, brutal as it is. I feel quite the inadequate chump. My testicles are shrinking as I speak."

"Blackmail," Greg said. He ignored Gordon. "Interesting." He brought his hand down and placed it with his right across his spare belly, sat back and studied her. "Desperation's a bad place to start from."

"I have to do this. I'd rather go alone but if you people insist on foisting someone off on me, I get to choose who it is and you're it," she said.

"Unlike you, I have a full-time job with patients and a clinic to pay for and everything," Greg said. "Not to mention a wife who has a say in this. I can't just fly off to West Backwash—"

"We're not flying," Sarah said. "We're driving."

Greg sat up. "Road trip. _Seriously?_"

"Oh, dear god," Gordon groaned. "How do I begin to enumerate the ways in which that's a simply dreadful idea?"

"I don't care." She leaned forward. "Do either one of you geniuses get it yet? I don't CARE that this inconveniences anyone else and wreaks havoc on work schedules! It's what I want and I'll get it or I'll—I'll just go and the hell with it!"

There was a brief but intense silence after her outburst. "Well, well, well. I never thought I'd see the day," Greg said at last. "Sarah Jane Corbett, being completely selfish." He smiled just a little. "Good for you. But you have to know I still can't do a four-day drive, even with a spiffy new beta-version thigh. We fly out."

"Whatever," Sarah said. She'd thrown in a road trip as a bargaining chip, even though it was a totally impractical idea. "That's what I want. Talk to Roz and let me know what you decide. But if you can't go, that means I'm on my own." She folded her arms and waited. Come what may later, right now it felt good to just speak despite how it might affect Prof or her oldest son, though she would not talk like this to Gene or Jason. This method's power to harm frightened her too, she had to admit that at least to herself. She felt like a self-absorbed teenager again, backed into a corner with only the truth as a weapon to wound her attackers before they wounded her.

"What interests me the most is you not wanting Gunney with you on this little jaunt," Greg said. "You're genuinely trying to avoid causing him pain, which is pointless. But you also don't want him to see what's going to happen because this is gonna get ugly, and you in particular will be shown in your true colors. And you know he won't handle it well."

"Yes," Sarah said. No point in denial; might as well be up front from the get-go. "So what's your answer?"

Greg stretched a bit and took his phone out of his pocket. "Have to talk with my wifey," he said. "Otherwise I'm in. It'll be a refreshing change from the usual insanity living here involves." He hit speed-dial. "Hey . . . no, I'm home . . . come down to the office. Yeah, now. Get a move on." He ended the call and tossed the phone on the desk.

"Ah, romance," Gordon said. "Very well. You'd better bring in Gene, since this has officially become a group session. You'll be billed accordingly, you know."

Sarah looked away, but not before she felt the sting of tears. Prof helped them on his own time and had never asked for a dollar of compensation. "Yeah, okay. But Jason is involved too. He has a say in what happens." She got up and went to the door, opened it and looked into the living room. Gene and Jason sat together as they played a video game. "Hey guys," she said. "Family meeting. Come on in."

[H]

Roz paused before she entered the office. It sounded crowded in there, and she wasn't sure she wanted to join a situation already as emotionally loaded as this one was bound to be. Furthermore, she had a good idea why she was included in the discussion, and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about it yet. But Greg had asked her to be with him . . . She opened the door and slipped in.

"—don't see what this will accomplish," Gene said. He and Jason sat next to Sarah on chairs from the dining room table, crammed in next to each other. "I'm on a minimal work schedule, it would be easier for me—"

"I _know_ it would make more sense," Sarah interrupted him. She sounded like she tried hard to stay calm. "But this isn't about being sensible. It's about what will work and what won't."

"For you," Gene said.

"Yeah, for me. That's not a bad thing. I can't worry about you the whole time I'm there, love. You know you'll try to protect me and you'll get hurt. I can't deal with that and everything else I have to face."

"Fine. Ask Prof what he thinks and get it over with," Gene said. Roz moved next to Greg. He glanced up at her, then patted his good thigh and raised his brows in a leer. She rolled her eyes but sat where he indicated, secretly glad to feel his lean body against hers. When he put his arm around her waist she shifted closer and took his hand in hers.

"Why do you have to go to Oklahoma?" Jason asked quietly. He was snuggled in at Sarah's side, and his head rested on her shoulder.

"It's where I come from. Remember when we first met and you said I talked funny?" Sarah said. "I need to go back to see people, get some things straight in my mind." She turned her gaze to the monitor. "Okay, Prof. Tell me what you think, please," she said. "I'd like to have your blessing, but if not, that's how it goes."

"Well, with that sort of attitude clearly I'm free to say whatever I like," Gordon said with a sigh. "Sarah, you put me in a difficult position. While I believe what you wish to do is foolhardy in the extreme, I also know you feel you must do it."

Gene got to his feet. "I'm out of here," he said. Roz watched him and thought he looked more like a pirate than ever, his dark brows lowered over a stern, cold expression. The pain beneath it made her ache for him. She glanced at Sarah and saw an answering pain there before the other woman lifted her chin and gave Gene a defiant stare. But she reached out to take Gene's hand. He didn't pull away.

"Eugene," Prof said mildly. "You are a vital part of this discussion. I ask that you please reconsider."

After a moment Gene obeyed. He perched on the chair and wouldn't look at Sarah, though he still held her hand.

"The one person who hasn't been consulted in any of this must be brought in now. Forgive me for the delay, Roz," Prof said. "You are the one with final say, not me."

Roz felt all eyes on her and felt her cheeks grow warm. She looked at Greg. "You gonna tell me what's going on?" she said dryly. He smiled a little and studied her for a few moments before speaking.

"I've been asked to participate in a road trip," he said at last. "All for a good purpose, more's the pity."

"I see," Roz said. "How long?"

"Three weeks, give or take a couple of days," Sarah said. Roz looked at her.

"You really do need him to come with you?" It was a simple question, asked without emotional overtones; she wanted the truth. Sarah nodded.

"Yes, I do." She meant it, that much was clear. Roz turned back to face Greg once more. _Do you want to do this?_ she asked him. He dipped his head slightly, his gaze never leaving hers.

"Okay," Roz said. It took a second or two for everyone to understand she'd just given her consent. A sort of soft rustle went through the room as people stirred and shifted in their seats.

"Still a delightfully forthright young woman," Gordon said. "No beating around the bush—shut it," he warned Greg, who had opened his mouth to reply.

"Thanks." Sarah said it directly to Roz.

"Just remind him now and then that he's a married man." Roz softened the tart remark with a smile. Greg regarded her with an offended look, though she knew he was amused. He snorted.

"Trust you and the shrink to take all the potential fun out of proceedings."


	24. Chapter 24

_February 27th_

It's a raw, miserable day full of blustery wind and a leaden sky that spits sleet, and half-melted puddles of snow everywhere. Greg shuts the door behind him and limps into the clinic's kitchen area. It took extra time to get out of bed this morning, and even after a long soak in a hot bath he's sore and cranky as a consequence. He wants nothing more than to grab a cup of McMurphy's excellent coffee, plunk into his comfy chair, and do a little judicious surfing.

There is a carafe of coffee ready. Next to it is a box of cherry danish, laid out in a delightful display. He eyes all of this as he heads for his office. With any luck he can dump his stuff, come back and grab some second breakfast before—

"Morning. Mail's in." His executive battleax appears out of nowhere. "It's on your desk."

"Mmmf," he says, and stumps away in the hope she won't follow—a vain hope, he knows from experience.

"Sarah's here," McMurphy says, right behind him. "She's waiting for you in the main room. Business, she said."

Greg opens his office door and heaves his backpack into one of the visitor's chairs, peels off his pea jacket and tosses it into the other chair. As he heads behind his desk, McMurphy sets the backpack within his reach, takes his coat and hangs it up, then takes the stack of mail on the corner and places it in the middle of the blotter, where he can't escape it. "Don't you have someone else to harass?" he growls, as he boots up the computer.

"If I hadn't just cleaned up after you, you'd bitch about my lack of organizational skills," McMurphy says, and gives him a look from those big brown eyes that says _I got your number, buster._ "Your team's in the conference room going over files."

"And the sky is grey, it's a Monday, you're a pain in the ass," he says. "You don't get paid to state the obvious."

"No, I get paid to run your clinic and put up with you, which means I'm getting a mere pittance of what I'm really worth." She raises her brows and sweeps from the room. He sticks his tongue out at her.

"I saw that," she calls. "Right back atcha."

"Right back atcha," he mutters under his breath in falsetto.

"I heard that!"

First things first; he goes to the kitchen to get coffee and danish. As he crosses the main room he sees Sarah by the fire in one of the easy chairs, huddled in her coat. She looks tired and dispirited, but when he approaches she offers a small smile. "Good morning," she says softly.

"What's up?" he says, as he takes the chair opposite hers.

"We had a meeting with Gibbs's lawyer and Rick last night," she says. "You know Gibbs gave the farm to us."

Greg nods. "I take it Rick isn't contesting the will."

"No, he's fine with it. He doesn't want to move up here and none of his kids are interested in the place, so it's ours free and clear." She hesitates. "Gene and I would like to talk with you and Roz about this."

He has a good idea what the meeting will be like. "What the _hell_ would we do with a farm? I'm already paying off this financial sinkhole."

"Come over for supper tonight and listen to our proposal," Sarah says. "Please."

"Only if you tell me what you're planning to serve."

She gives him that little smile again. "Roast chicken, baked potatoes, cornbread, salad."

He pretends to consider. "Hmm . . . maybe if you throw in an apple pie . . ."

"Here you are on your way to pickin' up second breakfast and you're already trying to blackmail me for more goodies." She shakes her head. Her red-gold curls spark in the warm firelight. "Bottomless pit. You're worse than Jason."

"Take it or leave it." He studies her. "Got the plane tickets?"

She nods, and her smile fades. "We'll leave on the eleventh as we'd planned."

"As _you_ planned," he points out. "I'm just along for shits and giggles." He gets to his feet. "Gotta go. There's a box of danish cowering in fear at my immanent arrival, not to mention a conference room full of team members to intimidate."

Sarah stands as well. "See you later." When he is about to turn away, she reaches out to put her hand on his shoulder, her touch light, almost ephemeral, a familiar sensation and a welcome one, though of course he would never tell her so. "Thank you, Greg."

After a moment he nods. She gives him a little caress and turns away, slips through the room like a shadow. He watches her, and doesn't want to admit he's worried about her. Then he heads off to the kitchen.

The usual battle is in full swing when he enters the conference room with a plate full of danish and a coffee mug. The noise dies down a bit at his entrance as the combatants face him with expectant expressions.

"Don't mind me," he says as he takes his seat at the head of the table. "Continue."

"Ten year old male presents with Hodgkin's lymphoma—" Chandler begins.

"Well that's easy enough," Greg says, and picks up a danish.

"Who brought those in? They weren't there earlier," Chase says. He reaches out to take a pastry from the plate. Greg puts a protective hand over his treasure.

"Get your own," he growls. Chase rolls his eyes and sits back, sips his coffee.

"The boy has Hodgkin's and something else." Chandler raises her voice. "There are lesions at the corners of his eyes."

"Possibly from rubbing at irritation," Singh says, but he's not dismissive. He's interested, which is a good sign the rest of them should be too. Sandesh has proven to be an even better asset than Greg had first hoped. He has a flair for the work, and quite clearly enjoys it as well. "What kind of shape are his corneas in?"

"They're fine, but he has lesions on the roof of his mouth too," Chandler says. Greg feels that familiar little _frisson_ of interest at this detail.

"It says here he's just coming off a bad chest cold," Chase says, as he flips through the most recent records. "Immune system's down, then. That could account for the frequent infections."

"But not the fragile capillaries. And why's his immunity compromised in the first place?" Chandler says.

"The Hodgkin's," Chase says with some impatience.

"No," Singh says. "That's a convenient hook to hang everything on, but I don't think it works. Hodgkin's snuck in for the same reason the chest cold did. Something else is happening here."

Greg nods. "Agreed. Round up the usual suspects." When he gets a blank stare from Chandler he sighs. "Must I still explain myself? Labs, tests, et cetera." He crams in a huge bite of danish. "Let's move on. How's the big dick doing?" he says around the mouthful of food.

"The other _patient_ is recovering well from surgery," Chandler says. Her cheeks are scarlet. She blushes every time they talk about their second guest, a young guy with a bent penis. Greg took the case mainly because Chandler so plainly didn't want anything to do with it; instead of participation, she'd resisted the administration of any of the tests or labs, hadn't even taken a medical history. So of course he made sure she was the one who performed the ultrasound scan of the young man's organ, which led to the discovery of the disease—Peyronie's, an inflammation of the erectile tissue which results in hard plaques that distort and bend the shaft of the penis-and she'd also observed every minute of the resultant surgery, from start to finish. Afterward Chandler had confronted him over what she saw as sexual harassment, an argument he'd brought before the other members of the team as well as McMurphy. It was Colleen who'd shot her down, to his surprise.

"In my years as a nurse I've dealt with a number of people who had injuries to and diseases of the reproductive system, not to mention STDs," she'd said. "I didn't particularly enjoy looking up someone's mossy crotch, but it was part of the job and I was expected to deal with it. Doctor House has a good point. If you're as smart as you seem to be, you'll get off it and move on."

"There's a difference between doing your job and having your boss force you to take on a case," Chandler had shot back.

"No one forced you to do anything," McMurphy had pointed out. "You could have refused."

"And gotten fired?" Chandler snapped. "How is that not being forced?"

"I found it an interesting case," Greg had chipped in. "Everyone else took it on. You were the lone holdout. Now either you have a thing against men in general, or something else is going on that colors your worldview. Care to explain what has your panties all bunched up?"

That had effectively silenced her, but she was clearly uncomfortable with the situation, as well as resentful. If Sarah was in better shape he'd send her in to find out what was what . . . but there was time for that. Maybe this jaunt to Oklahoma would truly help Sarah in some way, though he has considerable doubts on that score.

After everyone has shuffled out of the room on various errands, he takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Roz. "Hey," he says when she answers.

"Hey, _amante_." She sounds as if she's inside a tin can.

"You sound like you're stuck in a closet."

"It's a little tight in here, yeah. What's up?"

"We're having dinner at the house." He knows she won't mind. They moved back to their place last week, but have been ready to help out if needed. Well, Roz has. He just accompanies her for his own amusement.

There's a muffled clang. "_Ow_, dammit! Okay. Special occasion?"

"What the hell are you doing?" he demands, intrigued.

"Trying to work and talk to you at the same time. What's going on?"

"Mom and Dad wanna discuss the perils of dating," he says. "I think they might hand out condoms along with the lecture. Beats those candy wrappers we've been using."

"_Sciocco_," Roz says, and then laughs. He savors the sound. "Okay, I'm in. Will I have a chance to clean up first?"

"A hot shower with your hot husband . . . I'd say that's a big yes," he says, and she laughs again.

"You are the worst horndog. What?" In the background Greg can hear an older woman's querulous voice. "Oh . . . sorry, Mrs. Rivers. No, I wasn't talking about your hot water heater."

Greg snickers. "Horny plumbing. Sounds like a cheap porno."

"You should know." She lowers her voice to a sultry whisper. "Can't wait to see you later."

"Stop by at lunch. Show up naked, bring food." It's become a tradition for him to say it now. He knows she understands what it means.

"It's a date."

He spends the next hour or so at his desk, while he munches danish and peruses the net. At some point McMurphy comes in, sees the unopened mail still on his blotter. With a roll of her eyes she picks it up and carries it away, to return some time later with a neat stack of papers.

After he's exhausted all the fun out of his current situation, he pokes through the stack. Journals are set aside for study. Requests to speak at various functions—nope to all; a plea to co-write a paper with some hack from the Cleveland Clinic—as if; donation requests—what is he, a wallet?; and the inevitable bills, of course. With grudging due diligence he pays them, and notes with a bit of satisfaction that he's able to do so and also make payroll. No one's check has bounced, not yet anyway. Not until the mortgage comes in, and then he'll probably find Roz has paid it herself again, or given him a generous chunk out of her own earnings. She never says anything, she just does it as if it's a matter of course. The warmth that wordless gesture creates always makes him squirm in mingled bewilderment and wonder.

Eventually he settles on a journal article. He props his feet on the desk, tilts his chair back and throws a record on the turntable. Sarah's on an Oscar Peterson kick at the moment, so he puts on 'Night Train' and returns to his reading. Someone passes by his door—Chandler, bundled up in her shabby winter coat, her dark head bent. She's on her way to do hours at the medical center. Greg wonders how she gets along with Wirth and the nurses, makes a note to find out.

The article's not bad—only three mistakes. He notes them and writes in the corrections purely for fun, then tosses the journal aside and looks for his stack of tabloids.

He's deep in an interview with Demi Moore's housekeeper when Singh comes in and appropriates one of the visitor's chairs. "Labs are on their way," he says, and plays a little air drum along with the music. Greg peers at him over the top of the 'zine.

"And this interests me because . . . ?"

"It doesn't." Singh's dark eyes gleam with amusement. "When's the next rehearsal? We should get one in before you head off to the hinterlands."

"You just want an excuse to drink beer and hang out with guys."

"Well yeah," Singh says, as if the conclusion is obvious. "You and Sarah gonna be back in time to play Saint Pat's?"

"Don't know." That's the truth. Not that he's overly worried about it, but the dance is something Sarah looks forward to every year, and so far she hasn't even talked about it.

Singh nods. "Okay. We'll deal." He glances at the stack of tabloids. "I still don't know why you're not reading _Fortean Times_."

"Subscription costs a mint." Greg turns a page. "But if someone offered it as a gift . . ."

"Not when I've got kids to put through college. You can have my old copies to look through." Singh stands. "Chitra will be delighted to get rid of them, they're taking up space in her office." He heads for the door.

"Rehearsal tomorrow night," Greg says just as Singh is about to move into the main room. The other man pauses, gives him a grin and heads off to the lab.

He's almost done with the issue when Roz says "Did you read the story about the french bulldog nursing six wild boar piglets?" She stands in the doorway in her blue jumpsuit with her shabby old down jacket thrown on top, her gloves tucked in the pocket. In the crook of her arm is a covered casserole—last night's leftovers, which is fine with him.

They dine in his office as they sit next to each other and watch the soaps. "It's not the same since _All My Children_ went off the air," Roz says.

"You know Gene and Sarah want to talk to us about Gibbs's farm."

"Yes." She sips her bottled water. "There's no way we can afford it. Hope they sell it to someone who will take good care of the place and not turn it into a development or something."

"Because there's such a high demand for McMansions around here," he says, but the thought disturbs him. "At least we'll get dinner out of it."

A short time later Roz is in the kitchen to wash up their plates and silverware when Greg comes up behind her. He wraps her in his embrace and holds her close so she can feel the bulge in his jeans. "Let's fool around," he whispers in her ear, and nips her lobe as he cups her butt cheek. The clatter of the plate into the sink is a very satisfying sound.

They slip into the supply closet and Roz jumps him almost before the door's shut. When she unzips his fly and takes him in hand he gasps like a schoolboy. His eyes roll back in his head as she works him, her mouth hot and moist at the base of his throat. He yanks open the snaps on her jumpsuit and slides his hand down the front of the old sweats she wears, feels her shudder as he touches her, and chuckles low and dirty.

Ten minutes later they exit the closet, disheveled and sweaty and thoroughly sated. Roz puts on her coat and gloves, and gives him a sedate, wifely kiss at the front door. Her tongue touches the corner of his mouth, a tiny little caress that puts a spring in his step as he returns to his office. McMurphy stops in a few minutes later to pick up the mail. She pauses, looks at him as he lounges in his chair, hands behind his head. "_Jeez_," she says, and goes on her way, a sly twinkle in her eyes.

After Chandler returns from the medical center, Greg takes off for home. There's nothing to do at the moment, and if he wants a nap, it might as well be someplace comfortable.

The house is quiet when he comes in. Hellboy greets him with a chirp and rubs against his legs. Greg reaches down to twiddle the cat's ears. "You always know when someone's coming home. Wonder how you do that," he says. The Heebster arches against his fingers and purrs, his golden eyes bright with affection and hope. "Hah, way too early to feed you," Greg says, and straightens to take off his coat.

They both end up on the couch, the cat behind his knees under the comforter. The kitchen radio's on the NPR station and 'Talk of the Nation' plays; the soothing murmur of voices lulls him into that delicious state between wakefulness and sleep. He savors the sense of peacefulness before he drifts off.

When Greg wakes it's to find Roz perched on the edge of the coffee table. She strokes his arm, her touch slow and gentle. "Hey," she says softly when he blinks. The lights are on because the room is full of shadows.

"What time is it?" He sits up a little and Hellboy stirs, stretches a bit and stands, then goes to Roz.

"A little after five." She leans in and kisses him, her lips soft against his. "You still want to go?"

"Yeah. How about that hot shower?"

They have an enjoyable session, as they move together slow and easy in the warm cascade of water. He likes the way Roz's hands rest on his back as he holds her, her body smooth as silk under his touch.

Two hours later they sit back after an excellent dinner. Sarah even made the damn apple pie, an enormous confection. Jason's polished off two pieces and a pile of ice cream. When he's finished Sarah sends him into the living room to watch tv with Mandy, who will spend the evening there while her mother works swing shift at the clinic.

"So, let's get to the matter at hand," Sarah says when dessert is served up. She sits down with a cup of tea and a sliver of pie. "You know Gibbs willed us his place."

"We can't afford it," Greg says. Gene gives him a look.

"Hear us out," he says. Sarah puts her hand over his.

"Gene and I have talked it over. We'd like to offer you the farm. Our asking price is one dollar." Sarah stirs some sugar into her mug. "We'll split the cost of the property taxes for the first year as well."

Greg sits there in shock, and searches for words. He'd known they would offer the farm to him and Roz at a reduced price . . . but this is not that, not by a very long shot. "What the hell would we do with it? We're not farmers," he says at last.

"You can lease the land to someone else, let them use it," Sarah says. "We sold the cows to the Bishops, so the only animal left is my—the horse." She blushes at the slip. Roz glances at him. Her hand tightens on his. After a few moments he returns the pressure.

"Blackie can stay," she says. She gets up, goes to her coat, takes her little wallet out of the pocket and fishes out two quarters. She gives them to Greg.

"You can come up with the rest," she says, her green eyes bright with amusement.

"Cheapskate," he says, and has to go out to Barbarella to dig up some change. When he puts it on the coffee table, Gene picks it up and offers it to Sarah.

"Done deal," Sarah says with the first genuine smile he's seen from her for days.

"Let's check it out," Roz says when they leave later.

"What, the house?"

"Yeah, I know Sarah gave you the keys." She pauses. "I have a flashlight."

He thinks about it. "'kay," he says at last. "Why not."

The house is cool but not cold; the heat's on enough to keep the pipes from freezing, but the lights are off. They prowl through the rooms, bare now, with little pale squares on the walls where pictures had hung for years.

"We could open it up a little," Roz says. "Take out a wall here and there. There's a guy who contracts construction who owes me a favor. I fixed some mistakes in a house someone else wired. I could ask him to take a look."

There is a sense to this place, similar to his old apartment on Baker Street in Princeton—a feeling of ease, familiarity. He could live here and not mind too much; a study on the second floor, woodstoves in the bedroom and downstairs, sunlight in the old windows, Roz curled up next to him on the couch . . . "Yeah," he says. "Ask him to take a look."


	25. Chapter 25

_March 4th_

Sarah banked the fire and put the screen in place, then wrapped her robe around her a bit more securely and went upstairs. She took her time, reluctant to reach her destination.

The bedroom was warm, illuminated by firelight. Gene lay curled on his side, but he wasn't asleep; Sarah could see the glitter of his eyes as he watched her approach. She sat on the edge of the bed and faced him.

"Did you get everything worked out with Laynie?" His voice was quiet, but she heard the strain under the noncommittal tone.

"She'll meet us at the halfway point." Sarah smoothed the quilt, watched the faded colors move under her fingers. "I put Jason and Mandy's school schedule on the fridge. And the phone numbers, just in case." She hesitated. "Roz said she'll stop by—"

"You know I can take care of the kids and the house," Gene said, and now the strain frayed the edge of his voice. "And I can cook, too. I did live on my own before meeting you."

Sarah flinched. "Yes." She couldn't look at him. "I—just—"

"'—have to do something about the guilt I'm feeling, so I'll make up for it by extra attention,'" Gene finished. He sat up. "Sare, _look_ at me."

Unwilling, she did as he asked. He watched her, his gaze intent. He said nothing, but she sensed the words piled up inside him, ready to break free.

"Why do you think I'm doing this without you?" she asked at last. It was a question they'd both avoided. Gene ran a hand through his hair.

"Damned if I know," he said. Frustration shaped every syllable. "You think you're protecting me or something—"

"I'm protecting both of us," she said, and knew it was the wrong thing to say.

"So I can't handle what's going to happen," he said slowly. "And you can't handle me freaking out." He stared at her. "How long have we been together? Because I'm starting to think you don't know me at all."

"That's not what I mean," she said. "What I'm trying to say is . . . I've hurt you so much in the past. This . . . this would be more of the same."

"So you think physical distance will make a difference." Gene looked down. "Sarah Jane."

"Yes, I _do_ think it'll make a difference!" she said, and struggled not to shout at him. "You don't need to be there to witness—"

"But Greg House can be there," he said, and now the bitterness showed, dark and acidic. "You still need your own personal cheerleader."

"You know he won't do that," Sarah said.

"He won't hold you and dry your tears, that's true. But he'll make sure you know the truth, every nasty, mean particle of it, because that will get you what you really want." Gene leaned forward. "You want to run off to flog yourself with guilt and shame and god knows what else. You want to _wallow_."

"That's not true!"

"Oh yeah it is," Gene said. "The last time you decided to do this I came after you. This time . . ." He sighed softly. "You either come back or you don't."

Sarah swallowed on a throat gone dry. "_Gene_," she whispered. He wouldn't look at her. "Michael Eugene!" she said, loud and rough, and startled him into lifting his gaze. "I'll come back." She hesitated, searching for words. "When I left before . . . it was because I felt you deserved someone better. That's not—not how things are now, not at all."

"How is it then?" The pain behind the hard tone made her wince.

"I love you," she said. "I want to be with you. This—what I'm doing . . ." She ran her fingers over the tiny stitches in the quilting pattern. "You and Greg, you're right. It's selfish. But I have to go back, look at things I haven't ever really looked at. What happened with Jason's father—it made me see that while I've made progress in healing, it's been a few selective steps here and there, like—like hopping from rock to rock in a stream, and now I'm stuck. I have to . . . retrace my steps. Go back, before I can go forward." She picked at a bit of knotted thread. "It's going to be ugly, Gene. You've been through so much with me. I don't want to subject you to more misery."

"Maybe that isn't your call to make, did you ever think of that?" He was really angry now, she knew all the signs and shrank inwardly from what was to come. "You took the vow right along with me, 'for better, for worse', but obviously it doesn't mean jack to you. So fine. Go off and have your angstfest. Don't bother to call me with updates. Just—just do it and come back, or don't. And fuck you while you're at it. You say you want to spare me a bunch of pain, but you made this decision without even talking to me about it first. Do you have any idea—" He stopped, but she heard the tremor in his voice. "If I pulled a stunt like this you'd hang my hide on the damn side of the house for the whole county to see," he said at last. He lay down with his back to her and yanked the quilt up over his shoulders. It was quite clearly a dismissal. Sarah felt the tears about to break. She stood, took her pillow and left the room, headed downstairs for the couch.

For a long time she lay awake and watched the flames die to embers in the big fireplace. The old house made its usual evening noises, a few creaks and groans as it settled and contracted, the warmth of day exchanged for the chill of night. Sarah listened, took a little comfort in the familiar sounds. She closed her eyes and let her tired mind drift . . .

"Mom, what's wrong?"

Slowly Sarah sat up. Her face was wet. Jason sat on the edge of the couch. In the dying light of the fire she could see he was scared, his shoulders hunched. "Why aren't you upstairs with Dad?" he asked.

"We had a fight," she said quietly. "He's pretty mad at me right now." She held out her hand. After a moment Jason took it in his.

"This is about you going away, isn't it." It wasn't a question. Sarah nodded.

"Yes."

"Then don't do it."

Sarah sighed a little. "It's not that simple, sweetheart."

"I bet the next thing you're gonna say is 'I don't expect you to understand'." Jason pulled his hand free. "Grownups always give you that stupid line so they can do what they want."

"I wouldn't tell you that," Sarah said. "You're an intelligent young man, Jay. You see things very clearly. So I can say this is an old argument between your dad and me for a long time now, and this is my solution for ending it. It's not a very good solution, but it's the best I feel I can do, and Gene doesn't like it. And I know by telling you that, you'll understand." She wiped her cheeks with her fingers. "Living with someone isn't like how it's shown on tv or in the movies. It's messy and complicated, and things don't always get resolved in an hour, or a day or sometimes ever. People make mistakes, they say or do things that hurt the other person. This is one of those times. I . . . I made a mistake, and Gene is angry. But that doesn't mean he and I stop loving each other. You can be boiling mad at someone and still love them."

"That makes no sense," Jason said after a little silence. Sarah half-smiled.

"Yup," she said. "Humans are complicated, son. They rarely make sense. Logic isn't included in the vocabulary of emotion."

"Can't you just do what Dad wants you to?" His hand found hers once more. Sarah clasped his fingers in hers.

"I could," she said. "But it wouldn't resolve things. We have to work it out whatever happens." She gave his hand a little squeeze. "I will promise you this: I won't be gone long, three weeks at most. And I will come back."

"Dad thinks you won't."

"Dad knows I will, but he's angry with me and he's scared, so he's not being reasonable."

"Neither are you," Jason said, but he didn't reject her touch this time. Sarah nodded.

"Neither am I."

They stayed that way for a while. Then Jason said "I could bring my blanket and pillows out here if you want company."

Sarah didn't speak until she was sure her voice would be steady. "That's very generous of you, Jay. There's plenty of room here on the couch, if you're okay with that."

A short time later, when he lay wrapped in his blanket and snuggled against her, he said "You really will come back?"

"Yes," she said, and tucked an unruly lock of black hair behind his ear. "I will. Wherever you and Dad are, that's where I want to be."

"You won't forget us?" The anxiety in his voice broke her heart. She leaned in and kissed his temple.

"No, love. I won't."


	26. Chapter 26

_March 11th_

_(He flies across the goal line, his heart thunders in his chest fit to split it wide open, sweat stings his eyes while people yell and cheer; but all he cares about is the freedom, the glorious sense of weightlessness as his legs pump and he's propelled forward by muscle and tendon and sheer power of will . . .)_

"Hey, _amante_. Time to wake up now."

_(He hears her voice above all the others, and as the dream begins to fade he tries to catch it, watches as it slips away like sand through spread fingers. He can never show her who he truly is, locked away inside an aging body. It makes him want to pound on the bars of this fragile cage, to push them wide and step out, show her what was, what he still sees in the mirror under the present sad, flawed physical reality: a young man, tall and lean, with an effortless long stride and endless endurance and so much, so __much__ strength and pride . . .)_

"I _do_ see him."

Greg feels Roz's hand on his cheek, her touch warm and dry. The stump of her mutilated little finger rests lightly against his skin, a reminder of her own experience with pain and loss. Had he spoken aloud? With eyes still closed, he turns his head toward her in mute inquiry.

"Every time I look at you I see him, because he's you," she says. She strokes him with such tenderness, but there is none of the sympathy he hates in that simple gesture. "He's always you."

After a moment he catches her hand in his, clumsy and halting. He feels the deep, calm heart of her offered up without hesitation, her trust in him brighter than the white painted line he'd crossed in his dream. There are no crowds to watch and exult but it doesn't matter, the end result is the same.

She helps him out of bed and into the shower; while he gets dressed she finishes the last bits and pieces of his packing. They share breakfast and say little through the ritual of coffee and toast and eggs, but they end up hand in hand while they sit across from each other at the harvest table, and the first rays of sunlight slant through the back door window in a bright benison on Hellboy's glossy black fur.

All too soon they're on the way to the house in Roz's truck. The morning cold bites at them. Greg looks out the window, watches the snow and bare trees pass by and remembers other mornings from years past when he huddled in the far corner of a car seat, resigned to the long journey ahead.

"Take lots of pictures," Roz says. Greg turns his attention to her. She glances at him. "I've never been to Oklahoma." A hint of blush touches her cheek. "I've never been anywhere."

"I beg to differ. You've been to Buffalo. And New York City," he points out. "I don't know why you're complaining." She flips him the bird and makes him laugh. "Seriously, this won't be anything to write home about."

"Let me be the judge of that," she says. "A picture a day, then. Please."

"Well . . . okay. If you send me one of you every day. Naked pictures," he adds, and it's her turn to roll her eyes at him and laugh.

"It's a deal," she says, and they pull into the driveway.

Sarah waits in the living room. Jason sits with her; Gene is not with them. As they come in she gets to her feet, turns to her foster son and gives him a long embrace. When it ends she kisses the top of his head, takes his face in her hands. "Remember what I said," she says, her tone fierce and loving at the same time. "I'll talk with you every day on the computer and the phone, and I'll be back in three weeks, _m'chridhe_. Remember to mark the days off on the calendar like we planned."

The kid says nothing; he just hugs her like he won't ever let go. Greg recognizes dread when he sees it, but he doesn't say anything. There's no point, not now anyway. Instead he heads into the kitchen. It'll appear as if he scavenges for cookies or second breakfast, but that's not his primary goal.

He finds Goldman in the mudroom, just come in from outside. Gene gives Greg a look and hangs up his coat. "Gonna make your wife pay for long-term parking because you have a wild hair up your ass?" Greg puts a snotty tone on the words. Gene goes to the coffeemaker and takes a mug from the collection on the little metal tree on the counter. He says nothing, but it's not for lack of something to say. Greg can almost hear the thoughts as they bump and jostle each other in the other man's head. "I get it," he says. "You're allowed to mention _her_ stupid behavior, but _yours_ is above reproach."

"Stay out of it." Gene says it terse and cold.

"Already in it," Greg points out. He takes three oatmeal raisin cookies from the jar and digs his breakthrough-pain meds out of his pocket. While his new thigh muscle has grown in strength, the long drive and longer flight and everything that goes with both will shove him to the edge of his endurance. As he pops the pills he thinks of the dream from earlier in the day, feels that ragged pain deep inside, and pushes it away. "So you're happy to be right and leave it at that." He munches the first cookie. Gene doesn't respond, but when Greg picks up the rest of his treat and goes into the living room, the other man follows him. As they enter Sarah has put on her coat. Gene approaches her. He stops a few feet away.

"I'll call when we get there. You don't have to answer," she says quietly. Gene says nothing. Then he moves up and puts his hands on her shoulders. He gives her a shake that makes her curls tremble, bends down and kisses her hard and fierce, then lets go and stalks back into the kitchen. Sarah watches him. There is a resigned sadness in her expression. Without a word she turns away, puts her arm around Jason and heads for the door.

Time is of the essence; they troop out to the minivan. Greg moves to the driver's side and stops before he opens the door. Roz comes close. "Call me," she says softly. He nods. Her hand rises, touches his cheek, another, more pleasant reminder of earlier that morning. Then she steps back and stands with Jason on the porch to see them off, and he and Sarah are on their way.

He lets her sniffle into a tissue for a good ten minutes before he says "If you're gonna keep this up the whole time we're turning around right now. You already burned your bridges behind you. Stop obsessing and move on."

Sarah stares out the window for a while. Then she shoots a glance at him, all red eyes and pale face. "Yeah, okay."

"Shut up and get me something to drink," he says, and gets a watery half-smile in return. While she rummages in the little cooler, he takes the opportunity to dock his iPod and put on the list he created for this journey. A few moments later the first notes of 'Jessica' fill the van. Sarah sits up straight and gives him the mom look.

"What?" he says, all innocence. "It's a road trip. We need appropriate music."

"Oh, good grief," she says, but she hands him a Coke and settles into her seat.

The next twenty miles are accomplished more or less in silence aside from the music. There really isn't much to say at this point anyway. That will come sometime later, when the reality of what she's doing hits his passenger. He regrets the offer to drive; he could be deep in a new level of Angry Birds, or on a binge-watch of _General Hospital_ or _Prescription: Passion!_ Instead he's forced to watch the road and keep his speed down, because he's seen a couple of staties already. This is nothing but BOR-ing.

"Stop fidgeting and pull the van over," Sarah says five minutes later. "I'll drive. Otherwise we'll end up in a ditch."

"Please, I wouldn't want to interrupt your sulk."

"Just shut up, smartass, and do it."

The switcheroo is accomplished and they're back on their way. Ah, _much_ better. Greg hauls out his phone and is stymied in his attempt at entertainment when it promptly rings. He's changed the team ringtone to 'This Just Doesn't Seem To Be My Day'. He's changed all of them since Davey Jones' death; Roz even helped him choose a couple of the new songs.

"The Monkees," Sarah says. "You're kidding."

"Totally underrated band," he informs her. "Yeah?" he growls into the phone.

"We found more lesions on the patient's hands and feet," Chase says. "And inside his ears."

Greg considers this, riffles through his mental files. "Do a coordination test. And check genetic markers."

"DNA test results won't come in for weeks," Chase says dryly.

"It'll confirm our diagnosis," Greg says. "How's the upper respiratory infection?"

"You know what this is," Chase says. "Want to spare us and your patient the agony of waiting?"

"I'll give you twenty-four hours. First one who gets it before my call makes everyone else buy pizza and beer to celebrate." He ends the call and switches over to Angry Birds. Sarah turns up the music.

They arrive at the airport in plenty of time to put the van in long-term parking, then find a bathroom and empty out and wash up. Sarah looks a little better when she emerges. She's brushed her curls into a short ponytail, and redone her makeup to hide the worst of the damage around her eyes. She gives him a look—that cool, imperturbable glance he remembers so well from their early days together in Mayfield.

"Wow, you did a good job of hiding the fact that you've been crying," he says loudly enough to make the people near them turn their heads. "Hope TSA doesn't think it's because you're a suicide bomber with last-minute regrets."

Sarah closes her eyes for a moment. "Come on," she says in resignation.

They don't choose her for a pat-down, they go after him instead. "Yeah, because I look like a terrorist. Don't taze me, bro," he snaps at the guard, who gives him a stony glare in return and demands he hand over the cane he's brought with him. At least they don't insist he strip to his undaroos; he won't show off his scar, no matter what some idiot with pepper spray and a beer gut has to say.

It takes forever to get settled on the plane. By the time they find their seats and he claims the window, he's glad he took his meds early on. They help, but the strain on his thigh is clear even without a pain marker to bring it to his attention. He'll need something later on today to keep from spasm or cramp—the first time in quite a while he's taken anything except the minimum dosage for maintenance. It feels strange, unsettling, like this whole journey.

Takeoff is uneventful. Greg can sense Sarah hates every moment of it, but she doesn't freak out, at least not visibly. She's even able to unclench her fingers from the arm rests when the 'unfasten seat belt' sign finally comes on.

"You never said you were afraid to fly," he says, just to see what sort of response he'll get. She turns her head away, but he glimpses her expression before she hides it from him. Not apprehensive, not worried—she's scared, and it isn't just the fact that they hurtle through the upper atmosphere in a pressurized metal tube. He is forcibly reminded of the many times in childhood when he'd been thrown willy-nilly into a new place, as well as the day he'd first entered Mayfield. His conscious mind had some idea of what to expect, but otherwise he'd been terrified and unable to admit it to anyone. "It won't be what you think," he says. "It never is."

The rest of the flight is accomplished in silence. At one point Sarah dozes off; her head comes to rest on his shoulder. A bright curl escapes to glow against the dark blue of his oxford shirt. He puts up with the slight weight, because he knows it's the only help she'll take from him right now, and sets aside the swell of compassion her vulnerability creates in him. She doesn't need it, not yet.

Eventually they land and emerge from the plane to thick clouds and mild temperatures; Greg's forgotten how big the sky is here. It feels a little threatening, all this openness. Sarah takes a breath, tucks the loose curl behind her ear. She looks different here, a bit smaller, more frail. Her sea-green eyes are shuttered, her expression impassive. She doesn't glance around; she just goes to the baggage claim and waits by the carousel, shoulders hunched under her coat.

He takes the opportunity to call Roz. "You made good time," she says when she answers.

"Tail winds will do that. Miss me already?"

"Yes," she says, to surprise him. He'd expected a teasing comeback of some kind. "If you can't sleep tonight, call me."

He pauses, astonished once again by the rush of tenderness her quiet voice invokes. "Phone sex . . . cool. Wear that green thing I bought you a couple of weeks ago."

"It's ten degrees here," she says, laughter hidden in her dry tone.

"You know how to lie, don't you?" He lowers his voice. "Home soon," he says, and hopes it's true.

"I'll hold you to that. Love you, _amante_."

A few minutes later Laynie shows up. When she sees them, her pretty face breaks into a big smile and she comes forward with her arms out to wrap Sarah in her embrace. Sarah doesn't return it at first; then she hangs on tight, and the pain she's hidden shows itself, raw and deep, so that Greg looks away and picks up her backpack for something to do.

Much to his surprise and secret glee he gets a hug too. Laynie surveys him with twinkling blue eyes. "Such a tall handsome drink of water," she says, and pats his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you both settled in."

When they arrive at the house it's nearly dark. In the soft twilight they stand on the porch while Laynie opens the back door and says "_Mi casa es su casa_, come on in." Greg takes a quick look around him—quiet tree-lined street, solid, slightly shabby houses, older cars; it could be his own neighborhood in New York—and then goes inside to light and warmth and the homely smell of supper on the stove.


End file.
